Oh, Winter...
She says, “Come hither...”

She is an alluring *****
with her pure and virginal whites,
chaste as an egg.  Mm hmm.

Her flash frosts,
her intricate, fleeting diamonds,
her dew when she warms
drips and drops into ******* spears...
She pulls you in.

She pulls on you,
draws you,
milks you to the core.

She whispers “Come hither...”
in her squalls,
but she leaves only shells.
Such small feathered things,
stiffened and dead,
touched by Winter’s hand.

But she is beautiful,
and you...
You can not help yourself.

A moment cuffs you in the face
like Newton's overstated apple,
and the evening dissolves
into sharp, steady resolve...
You think about the extra drink you should have drunk,
the song you should have sung
and the man whose touch y so missed...

The Muse had disappeared.
**** Muse.

Every time you try to find news you want to *****,
not just a little, but expel the very core of emptiness out of you,
and you picked a fine time to stop swearing
because there is a man whose feel you have so **** missed...

The stars continue to twinkle across the Northern Sky,  
oblivious to the bouncing of our big Blue Ball,
un-answering dreamful wishes;
though, there are other stars lying closer to your heart,
a fresh start and the barbells below...  
And you realize
life is found in the letting go...

And the Muse reappears, smiles an aching, wondrous, Hello.

It smells like loneliness outside.
The smell of a hot dog on a grill after a storm,
mingled with propane and cigarettes.
The smell of solitary.

A string of “cold and broken hallelujahs”
no longer dulls the senses.
It’s senseless anyway.

I eat my brown rice in front of the sink
and I am reminded of the taste of Play-Doh.
It’s funny how loneliness creeps in on the wind,
the cars’ wheels in the rain,
the braking of the bus,
scuttling of squirrels...

Maybe a hot tea or toddy
(maybe something stronger)
will keep this autumn-ness at bay.

I have been so lucky to know a dog...

To know the enduring love of mud puddles and everything pure.

To know joyfulness in a greeting,
and the happiness of eating a stick.

To know gentleness and nuzzling,
and the softness of fur blowing in a breeze.

To know a wagging tail and the thumping of paws on the floor.

I have been so lucky to know a dog...

Darkness drapes the night
Cold and thin, with a clear sky
An advent of stars

Stars made from the dust
of bones left from the fabric
of the universe

Universe expands
Dry and brittle marrow falls
Winter pitiless

So... What if I flew too close to the sun,
cimbing steadily through the open air
and my feathers all fell off, one by one.

Freedom and a reckless moment of fun
mixed with a child's propensity to err...
I know I will fly too close to the sun.

I left the earth with my song, still unsung,
drifted along, alone, without a care
and my feathers all fell off, one by one.

A chimeric mirage, to which I clung
and I pleaded Fates, my wings to repair.
So what, if I flew too close to the sun.

The journey over, quick as it'd begun.
Shining bright was the sun's terrible glare,
and my feathers all fell off, one by one.

The path once chosen, could not be undone
when caught in simple, Fates' auspicious snare.
So... What if I flew too close to the sun,
and my feathers all fell off, one by one?

It began as a singular vibration, a heart beat, a steady hum,
and carried through eons.
It was lifted on perfect Devonian wings,
and traveled along with the storms and the breezes.

Mesozoic raptors picked it up,
in bone chilling lashes and screeches.
Then, the songbirds found it,
along with the whales.
Through waves and wind,
this is our gift.

It traveled with the tides and through the air,
and found its way into Indus Valley flutes and strings,
praise to Gods and Goddesses, as it entered all living things.

While it passed as Sirens to Odysseus' wanting ears,
the ancient Celts danced,
their flutes haunted the wild moors...

And each Tribe carried it through prayers and hymns,
laments and dirges,
celebrations and lullabies,
and through love.

Each Tribe carries it still,
through love.

Our gift.

She had never said it first,
and it is doubtful she ever will.

Maybe it was the first disappointment...
She danced with her Dad,
a four year old toe head
standing on top of his feet,
uncoordinated,
hanging on for dear life!
A simple, child's mind
could never comprehend
why little a  girl
could not marry her Daddy.

Maybe it was The First.
He never said it,
neither did she.
They were never in love,
nor did they pretend to be.

Maybe it was The Taker,
The Worker, or The Money Maker,
on a cold Christmas
or a snowy New Year's Eve.
Maybe it was pieces,
parts of all of these.

Each one who came,
soon went,
another brick in her
tower of solitude.
A fortress built,
no man could penetrate.

You could have her,
sure...
But you could never
have her.
You could take her out
for seafood and wine,
and hold her hair back
when she puked.
You could take her to a Cubs game,
hot dogs, beer, and Harry Caray
in the seventh inning stretch...
But still, you could never
have her.
In the morning,
you, or you, or you
had to go.
You, or you, or you
could never get too close.

All the while
she was waiting,
watching and waiting...
Riding time,
longing for, and craving
the one to  bring the fire,
the one who could wrap
her in his flame.