Even with insects--
some can sing,
some can't.

The other day
I happened to see a friend
who had passed away.
It was not until I saw him
had I realized,
I no longer cared for him.
I had been busy living
and after all these years
he was still the same.
How does one explain
to a dead friend
that people change?

She knew how to hold me
because she was used
to holding herself together.
She bound herself,
not from head to toe, but
from her flat stomach
to her nervous armpit.
Never quite comfortable
in her own skin,
but I was comfortable
against it.

I never knew what
name to call her.
So I called her
lover.
My lover would
rest with me.
Whispers filled the air
like clouds.
Our words were
puffy and white.
Others spoke
acid tongued storm clouds.

Now that she is gone
I still don’t know what
name to call her. Him.
His name
rolls off my tongue
as hers had.
Still bittersweet
and rough, still
my unstable rock.

Rocks crumble and learn
that the rain washes them away.
Rain learns that falling on,
or for, rocks
bruises the heart
and breaks the ribs.
Yet still, the rain comes and
my heart ruptures and
my chest aches of cracks. Still
I long for him.
For her.  For us.

i am finding my life
in small stitches
lately

mending the hem
on a pillowcase

darning the hole
in a sock

patching a hole
in well-worn sheets

i am finding my life
in small stitches
lately

until i have the energy
to make larger seams

The way you dance through the leaves
Of seasons, of time.
You are gliding, ripping up a dust of
Petals and Amber trees.
Give yourself the credit you deserve.
All these leaves are beautiful,
But you make them swirl and swarm.

The morning misty white
winter's night turns through blue to pink
a delicate porcelain haze
diaphanous scarf of silk that floats
above the sleeping hills  
this season
like a dream
creates the beautiful scene
that decorates the window every day
of which I never tire
an ever changing kaleidoscope
of colours shapes and sounds
but now
all is cloaked in snow in mounds

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th January 2016