Birch Island Books

Hangs a diamond in the silk-velvet of pre-dawn sky,
like a message,
like a Silmaril,
like a promise.

If this Morning Star were a promise
made to me by the stars,
what would it be?

Oh.

That promise.

That old promise, the promise which came walking up the shore
carried by a god.

I was just about to turn twelve
and the world had come crushing down and I
felt the weight of living
and would no one take this undeserved pain from me?

He walked up the shore
cloaked in a deep grey
and made the promise,
and for those words I have held on through…

Things

Which have been complicated and painful and exhausting beyond belief
and relentless,
crushing,
crashing,
like the sea.

And lately the Things have changed.
That is inaccurate.
The Things are as they always have been,
but I bear them lightly now.

And I rest between times.

I had thought the promise meant that someday I would die
and all this would be over.

But today it means just what he said,
the god who walked up the shore all cloaked in grey.

I rest.

Promise kept.

Seems to be a regular thing now.
I’m not enamored of it,
Now that I could theoretically sleep until tierce

So I’m going to enjoy what there is —
Special Dog Time —
After walk, after food,
They wait for me at the comfy chair and first Sgiob gets an all-over massage with extra attention paid to ear massages
And then I put my feet up
And Max fits himself between my legs for his nap.

OK, I can handle this.

Sometimes, that’s what’s needful.
the briefest of walkies at 4am,
then back where we belonged.

That I won’t try walking outside barefoot,
That I will try to make a sled run,
and so little snow that I will forget about mittens and I will find myself at the bottom of the meadow with no way to stand but to push my hands down into the white fluff to hoist the rest of myself up.
But that’s not the disaster which some people would shriek about,
It’s fifty yards from my warm home and hot bath.

What’s a moment of discomfort compared to a sled run before sunrise?

and with a turn
she rises again.

The breath goes out on the month,
Just a slip of white left
between the clouds.

Yet snow is promised
Eventually.
It always comes
and this year the path through will be different,
this year the way to the real front door is clear and open and I very much hope that we will use that path, make a clear, shoveled way to the door over cobbled path.

That leaves the glass doors just for the family and the woods, you see, and the path therefrom will not lead to the mundane, polluting, everyday cars.
No.
That way will be blocked, says I,
By all the beautiful snow in the world.

What I want is for the glass, south-facing, sun-loving inner doors to lead to a magical place of sledding and dog-running and sparkle and wonder. I want for these doors to lead to Faerie.

So I’m walking the new path now,
making it ready

For the snow

Pause.
Breathe.
Consider.
Count the cost.
Reckon the gain.
Consider
Peace.

Armistice.

The sky lightens, and the earth spins,
and the good dogs run,
and the coffee makes noises,
and the sweet ones wander the house aimlessly.

Only breathing,
each breath deeper than the last,
with crackles of old stuck places unsticking.

Is the circling round of the year
to a sacred day
regardless of the ephemera.

This day’s call, irresistible.
My merry lass’s natal day!

I shall watch the sun rise and remember the story
while she sleeps, safe and sound, nearby.

One hour at a time, one thought at a time.
This is yesterday’s poem
because the entire day was taken up by watching
and dragging on.

and pulsing and aching and striving and turning and being present to others because that proves that I exist and waiting so patiently behind my mask which is covered with flowers and vines and fruit so that it is no mask at all.

Breathing, barely, but I know that that is “sunshine” and this is “soft dog” and somehow I still have hope because I have tried the alternative and I’m done with that nonsense.