Across the burnt field
I carry my load
I pierce the smoky expanse
my energy flags
I yearn for rest
but the burden gets heavier
I am alone
and slog for both of us.

I converse with my mind:
“Please, a small spell
to float this flood
to higher ground.
Find an ounce of push,
then I can unravel.”

A midnight exhaustion overtakes me
I lay depleted
at wits end
I pray
a surrender
concede
abandon
my self
gaunt, frail, devoid.

Before sleep an appeal
to a power greater than me
deliver me from these ashes.

Standing alone you spring to life,
then the warmth explodes you
covering every inch of your arms and bodice
adorned in your full flowering dress.

But as I swiftly breeze by you on my way
and only take a glance
at you among the others of your nature
you blend in your emerald maturity.

It is not until winter
when you reveal yourself,
naked for us to bask
in all the tributaries of your inner world
and I discover your complex truth,
the heart of your loneliness and abandon,
where you have surrendered
your stunning appearance
and reach up and out beyond your earthly roots
for a life beyond seasons.

I need to plug into your symphony
listen for the strains of your heart
pull myself apart from my tense doing
slow down, dive deeper, below the surface,
then ride the ripples to the distant shore
of your gentle, loving soul.

So many great stories of people leaving home
to find a place home enough
where they could find themselves
become more,
someone extraordinary.

Most of my life has been such a quest.
Like butterflies I emerged from cocoons
after staying a while in a place to grow
into something or someone
I could live with.

I was lucky to find people along the way
strong enough to hear my voice,
people I could trust to stay when I was honest.
Those brave ones became homes for me.

I wish my imagination glistened
as it used to

I long for the rush of enthusiasm
with dreamy violins and brassy horns
of Tchaikovsky and Mahler

Where has the music gone
the tingly feeling in my chest
the excitement
now replaced by numbness
and in the midst of silence
shrill electric strains between my ears

Your love for me despite the nicks and flaws
lifts me from the pits and the claws of darkness
heaves me over hurtles to the fledgling light

The cards of the 30 year old deck
festooned with Monet´ prints
swoosh so easily pliant in our hands
we unthinking about what the cards must know.

The dealer endures rebuke for bad hands
and pleads randomness and no malice
but still has the cheek to brag of her own good lot.
The cards bear unholy smudges of anger
and oh the tales fingerprints could tell:
loss of cool, onslaught of quiet ire
if not murderous fancies
all shielded by superb acting
and control
of ****** muscles
and the pace of breathing.

This drama plays out
unspoken but with latently lurking
hurts, slights, envy
and long smoldering resentments.

Even patriarchy rears its ugly self-righteous head
and cords of tolerance of the old man are strained
and taut to the breaking point,
Pete now realizing why Kit no longer plays when Dad’s at table.

But then there is the rare event
like when it’s revealed that Liz had the better hand
but folded because she knew Burt needed a win tonight.