∴

i do wonder
if we can compartmentalize love.

can we keep it
contained in little
categories
to better define
our expectations
of it?

would it take the pang
out of it’s failings?

would it tidy up
the mess in your gut
that aches
like an empty belly
and growls?

i do think
i’d be fine without it
if it weren’t such a key,

that unlocked
everything else in me.

the hope, the happy,
the safe, and the free,
the unbelievable force of done
that sets in motion
all that could be.

these things are still here,

aren’t they?

are they?

still?

i cannot tell.

for locks are masters
that hold up well.

∴

∴

it all went too fast today:

nine loaves of bread,
24 granola bars,
six loads of laundry,
the garden fertilized,
the mudroom cleaned,
the school bags emptied,
two cavities filled in 28 minutes
on a dauntless six-year-old,
and three square meals
for seven round mouths,
with dishes done before bed.

i’m so tired.

this isn’t a poem.

i cut the peonies
and brought them in.
i vased the iris by the sink
so i could see them
while i work.

i built the fire:
two parallel logs,
then two across
to make air
to make heat
to keep the furnace going.

fire and flowers
to make me smile.
to make me remember love.

∴

∴

the truth is,
we’re a motley bunch
inside us all.

i strove for perfection;
following it
like a bouncing ball.

but you follow one of those things
without looking both ways
and you’re likely to get hit
in the street.

better to sit at the bench
a minute
and mingle
the crazy with the sane,
the different with the same,
the thrilling with mundane.

i might not get as far,
but the company’s kinder
and far more entertaining.

∴

∴

the existential
waits at my door
like a feral cat in heat,
directionless,
and howling for relief.

while there is
a substantial part of me
preparing
to suffer the night
with all that noise
and scuffle,

there seems a rising,
greater part
that is making ready
the garden hose.

∴

∴

come to me.

these words flit
like butterflies on a breeze,
unkept and traveling,
dodging drops
and the beaks of birds
to go out –

out as far as they will –

to bear,
and then
back home.

home is a sun soaked tree
whose leaves
are the breathing wings of me,

where the young ones, leaving
and the old ones, restored
dance in equal measure
with complimentary accord.

∴

∴

i was not long into life
before coming to understand
that my emotions
were bigger
and more defined
than is right
for a girl my size.

i could not contain them.
i could not erase them.

but girls grow,
and they learn…

to contour them
for culture.
to subdue them
with sweets
and a new pair of shoes.
to tame them with tasks –
so many insurmountable tasks –

a busy bee
i’ve made of me
to keep the honey in check.

i have even gone so far
as to promise them
a new land
we’ll visit,
someday,
to breathe.
we will travel,
and see new things
and laugh,
before being backed into bags
and brought home.

and farther still,
as to promise
those who promise themselves to me
that i will not feel
those silly feels,
for the sake of security
and same.

but they seep
out secretly
and cannot be kept
in combs.

the only silliness
is in thinking that they could.

here they come:
in writing,
in roles,
in wayward, holy souls,
in knowing glance
of those who know, too,
all the truth
that’s coming out of you,

sticky,
sweet,
and stinging.

∴

∴

we are coming to the end of words
and action must prevail.

how long can one mourn
the things that shall not be,
preventing all that could?

what character have i been made of?

it is no matter, really,
compared to the character
i shall make myself by.

it is an act of will,
i know.

perhaps one cannot

will

these things

but i will try.

i will try.

when i was a girl
i was scolded
for having such a strong will,
yet now i think it was placed there
for to redeem the woman.

∴

∴

give me nothing new
without me given you

and feed me not philosophy
if you reside outside of me,

for nothing
means a single thing
without you.

hang your dangling wealth
and seize your ruddy health
and empty all the dance halls
of their beat.

pall the mirrors,
stop up the frigid tears,
that’d flow again freely
if we could but meet.

you cusp me to creation.
you size me by ablation
and make warm again
the parts that warmer were.

you healer,
you revealer,
you causer of hearts to stir,

i miss you.

but you do not read,
do you?

at least not the letters
as we form them.
how futile then,
is my striving pen?

so i shall rest on the page
and wait.

∴