Me and my journal
Got those old country blues.
Turns out,
White hot heat
Doesn’t make
for a 'Brown River, Smile'.

So,
    I cried some.

Then bought eggs. And flour.
And sugar. And butter, for cake

    And made one.  

Because young life during hard times
In old country
Isn’t left with much else
to do–

    Just make something beautiful
    And hope to get through.

A maiden of winter
Born in dead weather
Looking at heaven in a sea of the sun.
Trading violent winds for violent heat,
Reflecting
In these violet hours of golden glows
And suddenly
Everything’s new.


Goodbye
stillness,
coldness,
soulless                   blue.

I don’t know much about god(s),
But I do know a lot about water.
And
If there is
A god
She was sitting right there in that bucket
Carried by Bly, carried with grace
And on the beads of her work
That streamed
down
her
face
Right to her smile.

Her smile.

So seemingly undeserved in the context
Of the situation,
But she taught me that.
And hope
And love
And to be patient.
Because this is one life
And they’ll “get theirs”
In the next one
But try to have faith
And give hard in this one
Because in the middle of all of it
You can’t control any of it
Except who you choose to be,
Regardless of what you’re working with.

So, while

I don’t know much about god(s),
I’d like to believe I do know plenty about me;
And I’m choosing to sit,
         Forever, underneath a magnolia tree.

Sometimes it’s just nice, to not be nice

To not be inviting

To not be warm

Relief:                                                        ­                  that’s love.

Not having to perform,
Just be in my form

To not do anything about anything
When there is something in doing nothing
With people who despite everything, think
                                                                ­               I’m everything.

I can’t tell anymore.

Being outside                                                          ­                 Being indoors

   ***** laundry overtakes my drawers.two days dirt saturates my
  pores.texts and calls being ignored.avoidance of all commitment.
          
I’m scaring myself.
                                                              No­ one around to help, to witness.
            What to say of                                     i s o l a t i o n  
                                                             ­   If it gives me a different sickness?

It’s time

I can always depend on you
To tell me when you are coming

Tremoring my bones,    quaking my belly
Permutating barometric pressure
Surreptitious signals transmitted through weather
             I trust you.
I know no need to seek shelter
A small price paid for what thereafter
And whatever of
Hairs that braze my face,
Puddled Shoes,
Skin dewed.
For your debut, pills easy to swallow
Aroma sublime sure to follow
Scent sweeter than lullabies
Adorning me          after I adorn the sky
           As your forward comes to an end.

I know we don’t deserve you, old friend.
But selfish a creature,
                I close my lids, I breathe you in.

I think it was Dickenson who said:

                                                  “My river runs to thee".
Or was it me?

Because if             I am                     full circle
                                you,                    my­ every degree.