the grass is greening
and voices begin to rise
i wander further
the distance between the tall oaks
and my bare feet
merely a few steps
the front door
not always left ajar
often thrown off its hinges
anger an anvil of weight
a battering ram
the moon rises and night falls
cardinals fly west
and venus readies herself
for a second showing
invaluable its rate
but just the same
The sky seems to yawn a bit herself,
the fading blue of her soul hinting at a new day
one she is not ready for.
Outside the moon is slipping away
saying goodbye to the 6 am blanket he hides behind
one he often finds comfort in.
It is a March morning yet snow decorates the trees,
time has all but been destroyed
and the sadness of winter has become a guest overstaying their visit.
Branches slink with the fatigue of an exhausted patient,
and the birds songs are tinged with melancholy tunes
ones they are growing used to.
Every March morning the sky seems to take a deep breath
whispering out to the plants and deer,
I'm still here
Every March evening, the moon gets a bit shyer
knowing it's time to go,
but desperate to stay, a soul so dire.
The sky seems to yawn a lot lately
her restless body struggling to exist for time
time she does not have.
it's been so long
february ended without warning
and lent began, sharply unwelcome
as if time was forced to hurry itself into march
as if more than just a month was ending
something unnatural began
long, blurry days and painful nights
aching, stabbing belief in a future
that no longer existed
i do what i can to tell myself it still can
as i ride the bus, my bag occupying the space beside me
filling the empty air i drag with me
staying out as long as i can
just to avoid using the word ‘home’
something is missing
when i breathe in, my lungs are not filled
when i close my eyes, you are there
but as if far away, back turned
march drags on, the days grow longer
and i avoid the river
The children would be packed and ready days in advance.
At first, we packed for them, but as the years passed,
They were experts at rolling clothes for twice the space,
Using laundry baskets rather than luggage tripled our carriage.
We'd leave early Saturday morning, almost night,
Departing from the Ontario weather like a bad odour.
Kathleen was away at school.
Mags and Andrea were in their teens now.
Ten years of March madness was terminating.
Herself would sit shotgun with Triptik and thermos.
The kids would awaken south of the Ohio,
Hungry, grumpy, and eager.
She had it all planned out.
Crosswords, colouring, wordfinds, books, Gameboys, lace,
Sandwiches, juice boxes, treats of all sorts,
For another twenty hours on the road.
I invariably imagined our Mini in the return lane
As we crossed the Bluewater Bridge into Michigan;
Trip over, kids exhausted, us, quiet, subdued,
Just wanting our own bed.
But twenty hours on the I-75 lay ahead,
Turn left at Knoxville
For Myrtle Beach, sun, tennis, seafood,
I found no peace in our final escape.
Conversation with her had halted.
A round-trip of dialogue in my head.
She'd said, I bought a house.
Words wrapped like an egg-salad sandwich.
It was our March break.
I rise like the Phoenix
I am inside.
I rise like the poet,
and, yes, I know it!
I rise like one of the greats,
Maya Angelou, the late.
I rise like the flame
atop my birthday cake.
I rise on the calendar
like a new date.
I rise in excitement
I rise to shine
like the glorious sun.
for it's my birthday,
Time to rise for fun!
Thanks for reading! K:)
I wonder if December talked to June, July and May
and somehow got confused like many humans are today
another conversation I've been having in my head
do seasons speak in words like us, a language that is dead?
perhaps we ate the fruit unripe and hastily denied
the days we have are measured in the 2's and 4's of time
no second can we add but many seconds can we waste
by calling on tomorrows like a destiny to chase
today the sun is moving but the moon will never know
tonight has come too early, asked the wintertime to go