at night, we look at art; women with long dresses and ladders leaning on moons, curled up statues fight the
dark evening chill—fog rises from the damp leaves and seeps into our bones, into our exhaled breaths as we
contemplate unspoken questions, from unspoken conversations with dead poets and philosophers and husbands and wives
The oak tree leaves cling to their branches through the winter. They bend with the weight of the snow. Holding on tightly, they sway in the razor-cold wind. Come spring, the leaves will let go; floating silently on sweet breezes that carry them into the forest—where the deer hide and the sun sets.
good health—the positive management of your health
enough food—bowls of berries and platters of cheese, black beans, red tomatoes and good chocolate
the love of another person, or of an animal
safety—a warm home without fear
steaming cups of coffee and strong, black tea
good books on frigid mornings
candles that smell like balsam, like cherry pipe tobacco, like spicy cinnamon
old photos
tattered quilts
pine cones and dried flowers in vases
love letters tucked away with ribbons
crunchy walks in the snow
a good type of tired—from puttering in the house, from doing good for others, from shoveling someone’s walkway, from reading an entire book of poems in one night
freedom to get things wrong and freedom to get things right every once in a while
January is proving to be snowy and cold with white skies and treacherous roads. I marvel at the frozen beauty falling in a horizontal slant during a squall or drifting quietly out the kitchen window. My eyes are almost blinded by bright colors inside; I focus gently on softer hues, fairy lights, dried flowers, branches covered in yarn, books on snowflake photographs and these words from Thoreau:
January 1852: “The blue in my eye sympathizes with this blue in the snow….Would not snowdrifts be a good study,—their philosophy and poetry?” from The Journal 1937–1861 by Henry David Thoreau
Happy Holidays everyone.
See you again soon and take gentle care of your hearts.
raccoons in midnight trees
flowers on tables
beautiful places and rambling thoughts
dark books and burning candles
morning sun rays wake the day
her tiny hand let go, and you drifted away—
higher and higher, with the wind and the clouds coming between where we stood and where you floated;
unanchored, weightless, blameless—the morning sun blinded her as she looked for you long after you had disappeared
the evening sun gently reminds us
that everything comes to a close
i think of you a thousand times a day,
i think a thousand things
about the dreams sifted through time
and memory
and heartbeats—
lives running parallel
on this side of my own reality
and in the alternate realities of thousands
hot summer days with the early morning sun shining through leaves and petals — making shadows on the walls like paintings on canvas, like unconscious meditations
the hazy noon lull creeps upon us — a listless veil of drowsy breezes caresses our afternoon nap-time dreams
the evening closes late, a holiday dive-bar atmosphere of abandon — another summer day locked up tight, slips softly from the present, right into the past
spanishwoods 