My Name Is Not Mavis

The Morning of November 6

And just like that . . .

The trees discard their leaves
The lashing of the wind breaks the fence
The green dissolves to brown
The veering becomes an unfortunate wreck

Just like that . . .

There is no way back
Memory becomes a choice
The bank account is empty and wanting

Just like that . . .

Some step away and get lost
Threads tangle beyond repair
Skies darkening in the middle of day

Just like that . . .

I call to you and say,
Courage making my voice quiver:
Can we go on? Is there time?
Is there hope untapped?
A fortune unspent?

Please don’t tell me otherwise.
I am going to believe no matter what.
Please follow me. Better yet,
Here. Take my hand.

Just like that . . .

You do. And we stand together.
Despite it all.

The Woman You Love

In the jest of the telling
You look across the room
And see the blooming
Face of the woman you love.

You look across the room
And see the ache of
Gifts unaccepted.
Of trips damaged by time.
The mirror that lies
With painful accuracy.

In the jest of the telling
There is a truth
That beats deep and beats true.

You look across the room
And see the blooming
Of the woman you love.

 

Opening and Closing Haikus

When the rooster crows
The neighbors sigh, disgruntled,
And still morning breaks.

Whether I think it or not,
The evening crashes behind the horizon
And the errant honeysuckle bloom lingers.

Deep Dark Woods

Sometimes I walk into the deep dark woods
And I lay down amongst the dead
Leaves and scrambling bugs and hard stones.
I lay down on my back, eyes wide to the hidden sky
And think until I can’t.

Sometimes I walk into the deep dark woods
And lay down amongst the dead
Leaves and scrambling bugs and hard stones
Until my spine becomes the bones of the trees
And my heart becomes the ache of the wind.

Sometimes I walk into the deep dark woods
And I lay down amongst the dead
Leaves and scrambling bugs and hard stones
Until feral hope finds me and eats me alive.

Reach

There is a time of maybe.
There is a time of almost.
There is a time of generally good,
Might be right, is on the way.

There is a time to rise up on tip toes and reach
For what is almost there on the highest shelf
Because it is yours, dear one. You might not believe,
But you will, with time. You will believe
Whatever magic you most subscribe to
And that will be your life. To reach until you feel
The strain in your arms, your shoulders, your chest wall.
Strain until you vibrate with exhaustion at the effort.
Reach until you grasp all that is right there
And feel the pumping of your vulnerable heart.
A fan that will never betray you.
A breath that will cycle back around
To give you another chance.