Shedding.

37 weeks have passed
my finger tips are colored rich lilac
dyed and died again
i've stopped painting the walls
let the stains set in

its winter now
i've been hiding out
shedding my summer skin

i've survived the plagues
of this year i am
sleeping better
pruned again

just when i thought i was living i was dying
just when i thought i was okay
i was happy
just when i wasn't paying attention
something changed and changed back again

i am traveling new roads
trails i have made myself
the seeds I planted long forgotten
are blooming now

the scenery is beautiful

Harvest and Reap

Sometimes love leaves, walks out the door and does not look back.  Love does not need your permission.  Love simply fills the open spaces it finds safe and warm.

Love may slam the door and leave a hollow where it once rejoiced.  Love may sneak back in through the window.  Love may be hiding.

Love may throw you a surprise party.   Sometimes love takes a new face.  It may be that your old love has returned with the gift of new love.

Love may take vacation. Sometimes love swims deep out to sea. Love may flood you unexpectedly.

Love may not wait until you are ready. Love may take up and leave without you. Love may send you postcards.

The Hunt

Our skin the smell of something starving,
like hungry hounds we hunt
the secrets in our bones, excavated.
Pilgrims of the spine, we
search, sharp and dirty nails,
sink teeth into dead-end
nerves and obsolete words.
Obsesses, we retrace our steps,
revisit cracks, we trespass.
Migrating across vertebrae,
dragging trails over places we've claimed to be,
avowing sovereignty.
Digging trenches in the cavities, hollow spaces,
tiring to find the disembodied places
we may have left ourselves.

the subtleties of love and mania

Who decided to let the dog run loose in the street
and who decides to put the dog to sleep?

Breaking and Mending (Did you?)

When did you visit the meadow,
to watch the wild foals
as they learned to stand alone?

Were you ashamed of their faltering,
red faced with furrowed brows?
Did you spite the bloody hocks that could not hold you,
the wild hearts that did not want to?

Who took you there before,
and when did you take it upon yourself to break them?

When the chore too burdensome,
and the feral love unattainable-
when your hands too heavy,
and the untamed ones undesirable-
did you ride the weakest one?

Did it lick your feet
and fumble in its own,
as you led it elsewhere,
to cut the muscles that it grew for you?

Did you think the buttercups were beautiful
and frolic in the flowers with understanding?

Were there songs of heavy breathing,
as you looked at your broken ankle,
in the dense blue grass?

Did you turn back to discover only yellow-
conscious of breaking and mending-
or did you keep your head fixed steady to your feet?

Did you both know
the crippling feeling,
of love being put out to pasture,
and learning to be wild again?