january’s garden
blushing with the memory
of sun on skin and
layers of blue sky blanket
tiny stars of optimism
in a kitchen filled with
mittens and boots
and the slight refusal
of dormancy
.
.
.
JEWELRY
blushing with the memory
of sun on skin and
layers of blue sky blanket
tiny stars of optimism
in a kitchen filled with
mittens and boots
and the slight refusal
of dormancy
.
.
.
Monday morning:
this headache with broken wings that flap inside my skull.
Melting snow and downward dog stretching age from bones gone brittle.
Thoughts on loss and gain and loss again.
Wishing to be a tree for a night and the moon for a day.
Spiraling down like a lost flake of snow and landing gently
on a bed of frozen promises.
Melting into tomorrow.
Backlit hope and translucent dream.
Flying closer to the sun.
Winging it.
.
.
.
Which, just now, means living inside a cold.
Watching the world go by.
Thinking about black stars and endless cycles.
A sun that also, always, rises.
Re-reading favorite books.
Tackling new ones.
A Christmas tree in the living room, still blaring cheer.
Being okay with that, with all of it.
Being here.
.
.
.