our lives
strike a balance between friendship
and love and loyalty—
we are positioned for direct and often indirect impacts,
even if most of the times we miss—
at least we can say
that we tried
A Balance
Tag Archives: writing
Lately
tea with friends
naps in the sun
pecan cookies
midnight reading
impending storms
sandalwood incense
and crystals made of ice
On a Walk
on a walk, i collect things—
pointy things, tiny things, velvety petals, beautiful leaves, memories, wishes, small moments of peace and happiness
In the Late Winter
late into the winter,
the hellebores sprang from sleeping gardens—
and we marveled at their beauty and their hopefulness
Shopping
on my shopping list: milk, bread, butter, apples, cheese, coffee
what I actually came home with: bread, pears, tiny tomatoes, incense, dark chocolate and a bottle of wine
Beautiful Yellow Things
sunflowers drying in the afternoon sun
amber honey poured into hot ginger tea
reflective golden sunsets
ripe sensual pears in a chipped bowl
single citrine leaves on bare trees
Excerpt from the book: Wintering
Here was yet another liminal space, a crossing point between the mundane and the magical. Winter, it seems is full of them: fleeting invitations to step out of the ordinary.
from the book, Wintering by Katherine May, 2020
My thoughts in the middle of the night
i think of the lantern flies hibernating in the winter
(their beauty and their destructiveness)
i think about the sculptural tree fungus
(some fungus is good and some is harmful)
i grieve the space dog, Laika
(why, why, why did they have to send her into space?)
my lost heart locket haunts me, 50 years later
(if i bought another, would it heal the longing?)
maybe some tea would be good right now
(lemon ginger or peppermint?)
Language: a short version and/or a long version
the short version:
the language of my ancestors melts into the canvas of my life, drips onto the pavement of the past and splashes, sticky and viscous into the shortened walkway of the future
the long version:
When I was a child, I knew and understood one language. This language was not on television and it was not overheard on the streets of my small 1970’s Ohio city. It was not spoken at school and as a consequence I struggled both academically and socially. Placed into a remedial class for “slow learners”, my learning curve, steeped and rocky and barbed.
This language that I spoke at home became a home in and of itself, a home filled with pungent smells and passionate voices.
The significance of my first language is heavy and dense. It has the weight of pride and beauty, of romance and memory, it has the aura of history and time and place. Like a dark, impending wave from a tumultuous sea, this language also crests menacingly, sulfurous and suffocating.
Several things can be true at the same time. A revelation.
I chose a path away from my culture, away from my language. For the most part, I have no regrets. Still, as time moves forward, the language of my ancestors melts into the canvas of my life, drips onto the pavement of the past and splashes, sticky and viscous into the shortened walkway of the future.
There will come a time when I have no one in which to share this language. The final shedding of a skin that exposes the raw sorrow of having run so far and so long and having advanced such a tiny distance.
What then?
Purple Thoughts
the lilac light seeps into twilight dreams—
a velveteen cape, a basket of plums, a violet crystal,
lavender stalks swaying in foreign fields
spanishwoods 