Winter Winds

The trees spit their leaves at the wind

only to have them hurled back,

swirling like cyclones

before pelting the ground and piling

into brittle, skittering drifts.

The ones that remain are battered and dull,

as if the effort to cling to life

has become an end in itself.

 

Tears are tricked from my eyes,

jumping rather than falling, as if flung from my face –

innocent of emotion, except perhaps wonderment

that the only moisture in the air comes from my body,

that I only feel the fat, wet drops when they fall.

 

At night, naked branches dance wildly in the dark.

It sounds as if the ocean is outside my window,

and I dream of childhood by the sea.

It is impossible to tell the passage of time –

the day breaks, windswept already,

long after I wake.

 

Winter is upon us.

Untitled "fare thee well" chorus

 

I woke this morning singing a fully-formed "fare thee well" song in my dream (or having it sung to me - I'm not actually quite sure). I was only able to capture the chorus by the time I was conscious enough to write it down, but maybe some day I'll write some verses to go with it.

A pair of good shoes to take the next step

A handful of words to put into song

A couple of friends to shoulder your sorrows

A heart full of wisdom to carry along

dreams are free

 

dreams are free, she said,

eyes full of mischief, daring:

how much will you spend?

meaning

one day all of this

will make sense at last – or else

not matter at all

Things You Learn By Leaving

(an acrostic poem)

 

Redesigning the future expands your heart

Excuses are a poor substitute for clarity

Start small, keep going with all your heart

It’s safe to ask for what you want

Let things take time (but help them along whenever you can)

It might be scary, but it’s worth it

Eventually, forgiveness will find you

Not all desires require action

Choice is everywhere

Every breath is like coming home

Hear Me

Sometimes the most subtle cry for help

is a direct cry for help.

 

It’s as if we’ve erected blinders

against the words themselves:

          “I need help.”

 

As if the truth they contain

and the pain it takes to utter them

are more than we want to bear witness to.

 

As if hearing them spoken so directly

renders us helpless ourselves,

and afraid.

 

As if we have nothing to give

to the one courageous enough to ask.

 

As if we could make that choice for them

by pretending we don’t hear.

 

The wolf is real.

I would not be crying otherwise.

over your shoulder

 heartbeats loud as hooves

   something always pounding

      fast and furious

         barreling down behind

            don’t turn around

               it might catch up

                  just run