piles of books and many naps
coffee, tea and mushroom caps
deer tracks in the crystal snow
pooh and piglet always know
how to let the happy grow
in you, in me, above, below
the branches of our fevered dreams
that glitter, glow and brightly gleam
one minute,
you were flying free in a dreamy rose ribboned sky with the wind kissing your wings
and the next minute,
you were crashing into a false future,
impersonating a cloudy horizon,
delivering a heart-stopping
ending
to a very small but precious story
At 4:30 I make coffee. Taking the dog outside, we are met by a large buck about 20 feet from the door. All three of us freeze in place. I know he will outlast me in this staring stand-off. I look away, not wanting to be percieved as a threat. The dog growls softly, we slip back into the warm kitchen and hear the buck bound quickly away, snapping branches with his strong gallop. Watchful now, we walk softly, snow crunching and breath rising in the darkness—the day begins.
Dear November,
You are a velvet pouch of rubies and garnets, of golden topaz and magical emeralds. I try to inhale you, deep into my lungs and into my spirit. Your breath of cool, night frost turns to fog in the early morning. Comforted by your crisp embrace, I drive along country roads with my eyes filled by beauty and my heart filled with hope.
“…there were flowers everywhere, roses and carnations and anemones, on his desk, on the table, in the windowsills. The roses were especially fragrant; their smell hung rich and heavy in the air…Breathing deep, I felt intoxicated. Everywhere I looked was something beautiful—Oriental rugs, porcelains, tiny paintings like jewels—a dazzle of fractured color that struck me as if I had stepped into one of those Byzantine churches…”
“Death is the mother of beauty,” said Henry.
“And what is beauty?”
“Terror.”
“One likes to think, there’s something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I’ve learned one thing, in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn’t conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does, is a fool.”
All excerpts from the book, The Secret History by Donna Tartt, 1992
Driving down the road in the fog, early in the morning; the trees look like people waving gallantly as I pass.
Radiohead plays softly in the background—
“I don’t care if it hurts I want to have control
I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice when I’m not around”
The deer lift their heads and their tails, watch my progress silently. The air feels thick and heavy—
“Whatever makes you happy, whatever you want”
Windows down, the coldness seeps into the car on the edges of the whipping wind. I look across the water, bridge after bridge after bridge after tunnel after overpass after bridge. All these links getting us where we think we want to be.
“What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t belong here
I don’t belong here”
The song ends and I turn off the music. Taking a deep breath, I roll up the windows and turn on the heat. The quiet feels soothing, the fog starts to lift.
I see my dog in the window and open the door to the smell of brewing coffee—a welcoming smell and a welcoming bark.
Lyrics from the song, Creep by Radiohead from the album Pablo Honey written by Thom Yorke
Spring arrives and the woods are damp, rich, earthy. You can smell it and almost taste it and certainly feel it—hopefulness.
she said it wasn’t the taste she didn’t like, but the texture—and it started me thinking about the texture of things: the softness of velvet, the roughness of bark, the flakiness of peeling paint and also— love that laces a conversation, or dread behind a day, joy around a child, sincerity beside a promise, desperation inside a life
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.
spanishwoods 