washed clean
in orange sunsets
drenched by
lavender sunrises
so the dust
and the grime
can no longer
cling inside or out
of a me
freed, freed
of all of you
I am the prism
of beauty
I always was
yet never was
with you
Prism
Tag: #Renewal
Freed
As a child, I survived the explosion of dreams that left hot greasy remnants dripping down the four-inch squares of avocado green ceramic tiles, marring their mirror like shine. As a grown woman, I survived the eruption of dreams that poured down an encasement of hot ash over all of life’s plans in the moment of diagnosis, leaving monumental statues of grief. Thus, I chose to live where silence drones, a rumble in the ears. Nothing left-- a hole, a void made by echoes of desires held long ago. So, I have taken a corn broom to dance with me in time to music only I can hear to sweep away the dust, the cobwebs, the fuss of other’s opinions and ideas of me, my doings, my words. Yes, from my words, I shake loose all the years of dust, the years of ash, the years of grease. All words, oh, so many words I never loosed upon the air to float free upon the winds, tumbling away, up, around, then returning once more to spring up as wildflowers when things turn to green. I begin to loose them now, freed to scatter where they will, root, spring up where they find a place to rest.
Why I Have Always Wanted to Learn the Art of the Potter’s Wheel
clay slapped on the wheel shaped from spinning motion with the control of hands form, substance given before the heat of the kiln then give years of care secured from breaking ends in sharp edged shards broken: mosaic in form
The Work of Spring
I clipped away dead branches
From the living shrubs today.
Not an easy thing,
But a thing that must be done.
Strange it is how dead things
Will cling so tightly to the living
As if to squeeze
The last remaining bits of life away
And thus, have company in death and dying.
There is yet more to do
So only the living things are left
To flourish in the spring sun.
Renew
Begin with unpacking
the loss of years.
Perhaps, for once,
Win the battle with tears.
Start over clean, new.
Carry emptied, broken down boxes,
bundled and tied, sticky at the edges
with their old used tape, to the curb.
Balanced no longer on narrow ledges.
Breathe now, once again.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 