Like a reprieve Comes the soft morning breeze; An unwrinkled sheet between us, Bisecting yet connecting Blazing dreams And cold quotidian chores. We’re given a chance once more To drift weightlessly, Aimlessly, In apricot-tinged hope On an undemanding tightrope. The thin glimmer of Love’s gold shimmer Becomes a carousel of birdsong In this rose-petaled dawn. Almost here, Almost there— We toss our hearts in the air, Suspended, Unrepentant. One last shuddering streak— Violet periwinkle pink— Soon dissipates In the bright eye of day.
I’ve been swimming alone For a long time… The water First too cold, Now sublime; I slide, I glide Through the darkness, Blind. My wounds smoothed over Are all on the inside. When I bump up against you, All buttery sleekness, There’s nothing to hold onto, No pain, No weakness. Two circling seekers Float on unmolested, Swallowed by the vastness, No point of connection. Bubbles of potential Drift along indifferent, While stars shine beyond This sea of solipsis.
“Bloom where you’re planted,” they told her. And she did. She adapted and persevered, thrived and blossomed. She was a country girl with the greenest thumb, but she could sparkle with the best of them under the city lights. She grew herbs on a tiny terrace in Queens while listening to Johnny Cash. She took a tract house and made it her own, with purple paint in the bedroom and a vegetable garden in back. And there were always flowers wherever she roamed. She gave bouquets of kindness to everyone she met.
It’s been a good month of sunsets Outside the conference room window, Splashing down behind the old Hyatt– A riot of violet, indigo, crimson. As the days lengthen And storms malinger, The sky waits for my drive home, Candy striping on my commute– Watermelon, apricot, grape. I stop at the fairgrounds To take a shot of butterscotch Streaking out of sight. Summer will soon push them later, After I’m inside for the night. I tire early now; One day I’ll see my last. I wonder which kind it will be– The glorious burst of final savage color, Or a slow unremarkable fade to black?
Last year when I was up north I got to hang out with my sweet little grand-kitty and my energetic grand-puppy. We took Rory to the dog beach, but the tide was all the way in, so we opted for the trail instead of the shore. The trail was full of puddles however, some small ones and some lake-size. The humans and normal doggos naturally avoided the puddles because who wants to get all wet and cold when it’s barely 60 degrees?
A retriever, that’s who! There could be sumpin’ in a puddle to retrieve, and Rory was determined not to leave a single puddle unexplored.
Happy wet and dirty doggo! I don’t have actual splashy pics because Rory liked to jump on us after each puddle foray, so I didn’t have my phone out the whole time.
Cold-blooded… Chilled mud Slugs through Snaky veins. What must it be like To have a body That doesn’t Keep your own heart warm? Relying on a sunny morn To shake off the torpor And get kill-ready again? Sliding into an icy pond, The search for lunch Turns slo-mo. All you can do Is poke your nose Above the frozen surface Until the gelatin mold Returns to predator soup. All these gator faces Only trying to breathe, Waiting out the freeze; They know how to survive. Basally alive, Crocodile popsicles Dream of electric blankets And ready-to-eat sheep, Hoping their soul mates Aren’t cheating In their sleep.
Everything That ever was Is still here In one form Or another; Won’t keep us warm, When winter comes, But it’s something. One of these texts Will be our last, Though we won’t know, Till silent weeks Have floated past.