I walk the dogs and write raw poetry. Won’t you join me?
but it’s before the rest of the household.
Max and I are listening to the rain water drip off the roof onto leaves below
and some birdies.
He is lying between my legs on top of the soft grey blanket.
His eyelids are drooping and he’s snoring very softly.
This is a very nice place for puppies.
I am healthy and whole and fed and sheltered and privileged and educated and engaged in meaningful work which I enjoy and loved by a beautiful family of extraordinary people.
Why do I feel useless and afraid and lonely?
I believe in my heart that when I am about to make a breakthrough of some kind, all of the homunculae in my mind — who cling to the familiar — throw every obstacle they can think of into my path to stall the journey.
Back into the fray, locked for generations into a battle against my arch-enemy: myself.
An infant dragon has come to be fostered,
and I am working very hard to listen
to the puffs and ignitions and tiny mewling sounds.
It is vital that they become exactly who they are inside
and not what I expect them to be.
Yet. It is vital that they become One whom I respect and regard,
one who has incorporated the values of my clan and village.
Oh, Nature!
Oh, Nurture!
Well. If they are good, that will be enough.
If they are kind, that will be everything.
And full gratitude.
Lilacs for the Lady of Mystery,
Moments for the Lord of the Wild.
Spirits of earth and air and fire and water
who come with gladness and good intent,
welcome.
Yet this table has five sides.
Let us not forget ever the element of surprise,
or of humanity,
or of spirit.
Let us not forget to set an empty place
for the one who is not yet — or who is no longer — here.
Which, by the way, is exactly the same word, the one for putting the letters in order and the one for doing magic because putting the letters in order is absolutely magical…
I wonder if the “i” which is not in “carillon” where I expected it to be for about fifty years is hiding out in “parishioner”.
There is a Morning Bird out there who sounds like bells.
Not squawks or tweets, they sound like bells,
high, small bells from a church carillon.
In the rain,
waiting for sun.
That’s Jupiter in the early glow
or Saturn
I don’t know which, and it will take earlier and earlier mornings to see them well enough to discern which is which by position
and to be quite honest, I am not interested in getting up earlier than this.
Though I do miss rising this early.
There’s a peace to pre-dawn.
A waiting.
But the world wishes me to teach night school, and if that’s where the students are, that’s where I shall go.
For now.
The queens of summer are rising at midnight these days.
Almost time for their grand and glittering entrance!
Finishing moments.
I learned yesterday
that it is more natural for me to shout “Thar she blows!”
than “Timber!”
Just the sweetest, fluffiest flakes
dancing on the wind
in gusts and gullies and tiny spinnings,
the air suddenly thick with them
dancing snows
and on the ground
dancing dogs
and how can I keep from spinning and dancing and laughing?
Grey skies,
mischievous wind,
morning naps,
fresh eggs,
messages from dear ones,
projects to conquer… but not quite yet.
Second coffee.