it's five o clock
yes in the morning
birdsong has woken me
an hour and a half
before my alarm
was supposed to
even after another
terrible night's sleep
to-ing and fro-ing
with tossings
and turnings
staring into the blank
of ceiling and wall
not enough comfort
or perhaps too much
on this slumped mattress
to slip deep enough
beyond those initial
stages of slumber
down into REM
i'm surprised to find
i'm not as angry
nor as drained
as i thought i would be
at such premature awakening
i can lie still
untroubled for now
contentedly listening
to the chattering
of these feathered neighbours
an avian symphony
of movements manifold

we each bought
a burrito from
that same van
i would visit back
when i lived there
two pork burritos
one with added
sweet potato
brazenly requested
the other simply
the expected guac
my overconfident request
should have cost more
than I was charged
but the man serving
could not bring himself
to demand the full cost
for "just" a burrito
we sat and ate
on the bank of the river
that i used to
think of as mine
we bit
we chewed
we swallowed
catching up
as napkin-less
salsa-dripping hands
were licked clean
and wiped dry
across the thighs of
already marred jeans

in the sky behind my little blue house,
tonight,
i see the brightest moon i have ever seen
and its light illuminates the peeling paint
and the broken window
and the mud
and i used to see blemishes, defects
new lines on the to-do list
and now i see home, home with you
the way we like it—
full of love and food and games—
wipe the mud off your shoes when you enter
and stay a while

i have asked but
it remains unclear
if it was planted
purposefully
by somebody
for some reason
unknown to the rest
or merely discarded
within a pile of
offcuts and waste
following a frenzy
of gardening chores
regardless of
whether it was
intended or not
it has taken root
it has bloomed
bright and proud
brilliant cherry red
against dandelion yellow
and uncut-grass green
one solitary red tulip
amongst the weeds

a gentle patter of rain
tapping politely
at the window
not tempestuously
but imposing enough
in its constancy
a passive aggressive reminder
from the heavens
of our ultimate
lack of control
such a minor obstacle
and yet it tips
the scales of
what was planned
or hoped for
to something perhaps
unforeseen
not yet considered
i thought i had
no intention of
leaving the house
but find myself
rolling my eyes
with huff and sigh
cursing the grey
for ruining
that potential

by lunchtime
windscreens glisten with
newly welcomed sunlight
reflected blindingly
from droplets that linger
despite the fresh warmth
carried in the convective air
it no longer appears
to be "coat weather"
though the ground
is still puddled
to squelch or
splash underfoot
perhaps i could venture
outside after all
with a motivation
fuelled by this
latest change
but for all the blue
stretching the sky
there is still that
darkened mass of cloud
hanging heavy in the distance
unable to tell if it has
been weathered already
or is another downpour
yet to come

This is not all that I am
All that I can see
My eyes shut close and fade
Into nothing.

I can see you
And all my hinges all my twists.
My bereavements and edges
That I cannot take back

The light can take me
When I decide it is my time
But I am not done
I am not done living.

My feathers can burn.
Into soot
Take all of me that is left
That I can give.

But I am done giving up
What more
What more can I ha-------------

this bowl can still
be repaired
even if it
seems broken
irredeemably
even if its pieces
have been trodden
underfoot
further ground down
in an effort
to recover those
scattered fragments
as unlikely as
it may be that
these edges can
be jigsawed together
aligned once more
it could simply be
a case of
embracing the cracks
that might remain
filling them
with something
to be marvelled at

it turns out
Mother Nature is
just as indecisive
as the rest of us
it seemed that
she had finished
with her winter
her day-long frosts
and biting winds
no longer the need
to cocoon oneself
in protective layers
when venturing out
for nothing more than
a bottle of milk
of down-stuffed coats
and twice-wrapped scarves
woollen hats
and thermal socks

it felt like
we had moved on
our spring had arrived
just in time
we could enjoy
the brisk early mornings
despite their chill
safe in the knowledge
that the gentle touch
of afternoon warmth
would shortly follow
the biggest setback
to be expected
was an intermittent
morning-to-evening downpour
dampening our anticipation
though only temporarily
of any plans we had made
until the puddles were dry
or had drained away

it may have been
a false start
but i'm loathe to say
we were tricked
or call it
an outright lie
those brightened days
were a welcome change
enjoyed by all
we were simply
carried away by
the primaveral allusions
lulling us enough
to forget the cold
and its significance
catching us unprepared
and exposed
like those delicate flowers
so recently bloomed
buried for now
beneath this weight
of snow

perhaps it is apt
the first pancake
is always
a disappointment
stodgy
anaemic
without that light
crisped perfection
we've come to expect
it is undercooked
typically
as the ideal
frying time
is gauged
incorrectly at first
it will be
plated with
accompanying pleas
for forgiveness
and absolution
but as penance
someone has to
suffer this
pariah's offering
with each mouthful
comes thoughts
of apology
of atonement
of promises
it will be better
next time

i would like
to keep bees
or at least
i like the idea
of keeping bees
to be honest
i know nothing
next to nothing
about all that
it entails
but it seems like
it would be cathartic
although their frenzies
may be calmed
by the smoke
movements must remain
slow and gentle
such fragility
must be tended to
   carefully
   mindfully
almost lovingly
i think i like
the idea of the peace
to be found in
those moments
there is a
shade-dappled spot
at the bottom
of the garden
that would be
the perfect place
for them
where the humming
of the hive
would accompany
the swaying of
the tree's
their gentle whispering
and the quietude
that would settle
beyond