Word Rummager

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if I had painted this, I’d call it “possibility,” but it’s just a doorway I liked while walking through town

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A moaning groaning burst of pain from just standing, a surprise after surviving a dozen hits in recent days. Soothing comes carefully, curated from a box of tea, a stack of old books, and a story without an ending yet.

What if there’s no right question?

There must be a way forward, even if it seems sideways. That’s the way of mountain ranges and daydreams that may never be.

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some parallax art in a little park near my son’s apartment

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exotic riffs on a quiet Thursday the song has been there for days a wailing sort of thing of course in a minor chord because that’s how this summer goes I belted it out in my basement work space this morning also kicking as high as I could why not give something my all holding back 90% of the time is exhausting (but I just have to) so when I let go it’s bittersweet hopeful and I’m so full, just for a moment

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How’s your light? Did the sickly yellow of your morning fade? I picture morning like a bruise, the greys and yellows turning blue and red. The sun is a wondrous star but it’s harsh and so honest, I can barely look up in afternoon. Sometimes I close my eyes figuratively before jumping into the day, imagining more forgiveness at night. I so love the moon. I think you do too. I think a portrait of us could be done in charcoal, smudges of dark dancing.

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stock answers it’s sweltering but I have my faculties surviving blazing blue sky purple flowers in shade a breeze weaving throughout each day is a new ache with colors worth noting despite fatigue land with water built in books nearby glorious trees everywhere hungry for something is better than not feeling and today is almost edible windows to see in or out a faraway song butterflies no matter what

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today’s sun feels different than yesterday’s but also I’m outside which I couldn’t bear until I dug and found kindness without needing anyone else one step forward hundreds of hopes lifted there is heart in the breeze, carried from flower to flower with the only drudgery being how we reimagine home as it fits in a blah little box instead of fields of possibility

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Monday finds me exhausted and restless birds are screeching intolerably and even a perfect breeze can’t push the dark off this sunny afternoon a carriage rolls by people chirp industriously a few miles off while I barely hang on I took off my watch hours ago and closed my eyes willing it to be night

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heat warnings and soup we live in a time fraught with conflicting messages, too many choices, and clouds that refuse to stay put I don’t know what I mean exactly but I know the feeling can’t be new- nothing is choosing paint and blankets matching vessels of retreat (just so) I really like hiding but need to be seen

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unlike her she sings sharply and with precision only known with bitterness and great suffering I suffer but my edges are soft as I can’t hold the world in blame for all malice so my song is imperfect the joy in suffering is sometimes during the wave and sometimes just after when there’s release my sadness pervades and my worry interrupts but I sing only an echo of her fire and still keep warm

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meltingly hot

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I’ve read the fireflies are dwindling and I so hope that isn’t the case. I never grow tired of standing on my porch watching the night flicker and sparkle.

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standing on a narrow set of steep steps musty damp peeling paint on the wall beside just out of reach of sun most of the day it’s a corner of eternal summer with ferns uncurling and spiders collecting wings relief from heat but not from wandering maybe beetles have decided to spell out answers to non-questions but what do we dance to without music is there nothing to break the wall of quiet a secret heat that can’t be explained well enough for it to be real enough

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Wednesday the same as the day when I was 9 and loved the smell of fried chicken in the school cafeteria as there was little else to welcome a new girl in school the same as the day in my 40’s I saw a buck in the meadow and we were both surprised but also both stood still the same as the day I was 5 and tiptoed on the roots of a tree heaving the sidewalk the same as the day in my 20’s when I knew almost full autonomy over my body and time the same as the day that was the same as the other day when the call of meadows felt eternal and my body felt fair to middling with a touch of melancholy

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summer rumbling living through the longest days summer summer thunderstorms by day darker nights than memory holds days that stretch just beyond where hope lingers on the edge of clouds that turn on a dime it’s noisy with the hard ground and birds sated from ripe landscapes but the trees are dancing and I wish to join in too days are a little too long when relief comes slowly without bearings because of a sun taking over waking thoughts

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fireworks

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there’s a tiny space to hold onto scraps of the best of us like acorns holding giant oaks I can’t spell out where we can go to dream or just be I just know I can feel the world we make and disappear to when I curl my hands into fists in my pockets no matter the noise