november night

you stoke the fire as my brush strokes the canvas
two souls burn with desire since that kiss on the campus
the last glow of the evening fades into the night
winter stars are shining and shimmering their light
as loneliness comes creepin' in.

mountains apart and the miles, they span between us
i keep you wrapped in my heart as gravity enfolds us
the november winds, now they are a-blowin'
and the river of time, it shows no sign of slowin'
then loneliness comes creepin' in.

lying here without you, this bed just feels so cold
absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so i've been told
counting down the days until we can be together
life goes by in the blink of an eye compared with forever
but for now, loneliness comes creepin' in.

Feathers and Stones

I have seen your feathers and stones in my dreams.

Sometimes they hang down from the stars,
and sometimes they appear to float as leaves on a stream.

The light plays upon the feathers and stones,
casting shadows onto the surface below.

As I walk between the shadows,
above me appears a web woven of golden thread.

With the tips of my fingers, I reach up to feel the delicate web.

Instead of the web, my fingertips touch your hands....

Bent. Betrayed. Broken.

Bent. Betrayed. Broken.

I lie abandoned in the wake of your flood,
entombed by the memories you have left me.

A scattering of ashes from the flame of love we once shared.

My fear was that I would awaken from this dream of being with you.

Now, I find myself alone inside the nightmare of my life,
hopes and dreams razed to a pile of rubble beneath my feet.

Bent. Betrayed. Broken.

Gone are the days of up the hill and down the hill and up the hill.

The second breakfasts of Saturdays are now long past.

No future memories to be made on those autumn days,
whispering on the porch swing together.

No lit candles of Michaelmas nor wanderings through the Christmas villages.

No meteorites zipping past as we lie and laugh in the cool mountain air.

Bent. Betrayed. Broken.

The Gift

Longer do the shadows grow,

As the sun is slowly sinking low.

The clouds are edged in gold,

Like a ribbon on a gift you can never hold....

One Fish, Two Fish, COPD Fish....

Last night, I ended up retiring to bed far later than I should have, but I kind of avoid going to bed when I have a lot on my mind. After filling my evening with various activities around the house (i.e. emptying the dishwasher, doing laundry, rearranging some stuff), I finally dragged myself to bed around 2AM. I nestled myself under a mountain of sheets, quilts, blankets (yeah...I get REALLY cold, and I think my body's thermostat is either malfunctioning or missing...) and turned out the lights.

Lulled gently to sleep by the ambient trill of crickets on my iPod, I was set adrift amidst a sea of dreams.

That is, until I was awakened.... No, it wasn't something outside, nor a restless spirit who wandered in from out in the cemetery beyond my yard. It was something much closer, and much more bizarre. A coughing fish. That's right, my fish has developed a cough! Can you believe that a fish can cough?! I turned on the night-light beside the dresser, and peered into the little fish bowl where my nameless Siamese Betta lives, and there he was: coughing his little head off. I spoke gently to him, trying to calm him down. Finally, he appeared to regain his composure as he proceeded to beg me for a freeze-dried worm. Crazy fish! Tonight, my nameless Betta shall find himself sleeping somewhere other than my dresser....

What, exactly, do you have in mend?

Push. Pull. Prod.

Stretch. Release. Retract.

Bend, crease, fold.

Finally, a fracture appears at the fold. Will it crack and break completely, sheared off in one clean line? Or jagged and irregular, like a laceration?

Maybe this can be fixed. Mended somehow. Can a badly abused heart even BE mended? What do you use, double-sided tape? Super Glue? Rubber cement? Bondo? Needle and thread? Denture adhesive?

Echoes

Unanswered questions surround me, echoes within a dark cavern of shadows.

Love

Love.

The most basic need a human being has.

Love is everywhere, surrounding us like the very air we breathe.

And yet, it seems, so very hard to find. Or at least pretty difficult to keep around in a somewhat permanent sense.

No, I'm not talking about the kind of eternal love you feel for your family, or your friends, or perhaps your favorite Aspen tree out in the yard.

I mean the romantic kind of love, that kind of love which makes you catch your breath as your heart skips a beat.

Love that causes you to forget to eat when you're hungry.

Love that prompts you to imagine a special someone when you hear a certain song on your iPod.

Love that makes you sigh as you rest your head on your buckwheat-hull pillow at night.

Love that causes you to gaze up at the moon and the stars, and to think of the wonder of it all.

What happens to us when we fall in love? An endorphin rush? Something more? A collision of molecules? A melding of minds? A fusion of souls?

And what happens to us when we lose that love? Do we lose a piece of ourselves? What if a big enough piece of us will not be left to keep going? What happens then? Do we fade away into nothingness? Do we wander around like an empty shell of a person, mumbling to ourselves? Or do we pretend like we're okay, that we don't really need love to feel like a human?

I have lost love before. More times than I would like to admit. Sometimes I console myself, thinking "it must not have been REAL love, since it didn't last...." But I'm not fooled. I can't forget.

This time when I lost love, I think I feel it even more deeply than the last time I lost love. This time is different. This time, love just disappeared. This was not simple love. This was complicated love. The kind where we had "Implied Dates" and "Plans for the Future". Plans like going to Asheville for a winter holiday. And going camping at Rocky Knob. One day he called and wanted to meet me for dinner. I had already agreed to meet a girlfriend of mine that evening for dinner, so I politely declined. "I love you," we said to one another. I haven't heard from him since then. I have called. I have texted. I have emailed. Not like a crazy woman, mind you, but just a couple of times over the last month. My mother suggested I check the obituaries in the newspaper. "What," I asked? "Are you nuts?!" The funny thing is, I actually did. Every day since that day, I have pulled out the obituary pages and I have looked, just to make sure.

Yes, this time is different. This time, I have no sense of closure. Nothing really culminated into "The End". So, here I am. Sipping my coffee. The newspaper lies open, waiting for me to read it. This time, I reach for the comics instead of the obituaries.

Conflagration

The raging fire, tinder a-blaze, burns itself down to the last glowing embers, before fading finally into cold ashes....leaving nothing behind but a mournful memory of what once was, what will now never be.

Cardamom & Cranberries

Sunday morning....my favorite morning of the week. I awaken naturally with the sunrise, without having to fret over setting an alarm clock. The glow of sunlight gently peeks between the slats of the old Venetian blinds, an accompaniment of birdsong softly rises from the tulip tree below the window. I close my eyes and quietly listen to the melody; I discern the trill of a mockingbird, two cheerful chickadees, and a jubilant male cardinal. I love the respectful way in which birds display their appreciation of the dawn. A gift of joyous song in exchange for a gift of sunlight....

As I rise up amidst my sea of twisted sheets and soft covers, I think to myself, "In what way should a human show appreciation for the gift of a new day?" I stand up, stretching and yawning, reaching up toward the ceiling with my arms. A loud "pop!" echoes through the room as my left shoulder prompts me with a reminder of my childhood days spent climbing trees. When is the last time I climbed a tree? I try to remember....last spring? Wow, I really need to find a good tree for climbing. I love the perspective from a perch in the uppermost branches of a tree, the feeling of the wind rustling through the leaves, the gentle swaying of the limbs. Even the occasional scrape from the rough bark of the tree reminds me that I am alive.

After a hot bath, I quickly dress and pile my tangled mess of curls onto the back of my head, securing them with a smoothly carved stick. I plod down the squeaky wooden stairs, turn the corner and walk into the kitchen. Removing a saucepan from the cabinet, a metal lid clangs onto the floor. So much for being quiet! From upstairs comes, "Mama?! Is that you?" I giggle, knowing that Mason has been waiting to hear a clue that I'm making breakfast. "Yes," I answer, "would you like some oatmeal?"

A rapid flurry of footsteps flutters down the stairs, and two seconds later, Mason stands beside me at the pantry. His cherubic little face reveals dimples on either cheek, halo of golden curls in disarray atop his head, dark brown eyes sparkling with the anticipation of his favorite meal. "Are you gonna put the cardamom in there? And the cream, Mama?" I smile, and finish gathering the items from the pantry. "Yes, Mason, I will make it just like I always do. But in mine, I think I'm going to put some dried cranberries today. Would you like some in your oatmeal?"

Mason folds his face in thought, then crinkles up his nose in disgust. Typical of many children, he does not readily try new things without a little prodding first. "Mason, part of being a human is the willingness to try new things, to keep an open mind. When you are unwilling to try new things, you become stagnant."

I can tell immediately that he is concerned with what I just said. "Mama, what is 'stagnant'?"

"To 'stagnate' means to stop growing, to become stuck in old habits and thinking patterns. Being 'stagnant' is what happens to people when they do not wish to learn or gain new experiences," I reply. "It is a very sad thing."

A brief shadow crosses Mason's face, then a little smirk dances at the corners of his mouth, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I know someone who is stagnant!", he exclaims. "My Dad!"

I know this snippet of conversation will probably cause strife for me in the near future, when my former husband finds out that he is 'stagnant'. Still, I think that Mason learned a valuable lesson about life. Perhaps that is how a human shows appreciation for the gift of a new day? Smiling, I sprinkle a handful of dried cranberries into Mason's steaming bowl of oatmeal.