Learning to love the lion of things…..

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I will be grateful for the fires of winter
burning into the deep,  hard,  steely cold,
for the crackling sounds of earth giving up her strength
until ashes and coal
re-heated the heart and bones of me

and my soul sings thanks over old,  dirty snow,
over the slick of ice that skidded and slowed
what wanted to go faster,
wanted to outrun the gray skies closed in harsh
and find pretty things that pull my eyes
to softer places easier to see

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  and I’ll call them good,  the little luminaries
in the bitter slow-going,
the bright little beings flocked close around the birdfeeder
and life calling me sometimes out
onto streets I didn’t want to travel,
for the ways it made me braver
and tugged me farther into the wilds of my soul
where seeds waited long for me to sing warm breath
over their hard little shells
until they,  too,  went green and glowing
.

and how odd that maybe it’s a rich thing ,
how slowly winterness melts and thins,
and draws it out long,   this waiting
for the stuff of fruit and herb and light and loam and bloom
and I’m grateful more than weary
for the lion of even tiresome things

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I’m learning to love both the lamb and the lion of this thing called living:)

“….gone are the dark clouds that had me down,
it’s gonna be a bright,  bright
sunshiny day.”
-Jimmy Cliff

I’m gonna give away a copy of the March issue of my bright little zine,  Ripplesongs,
to the name I draw from the comments left on this post
……..jump on in,  if you like!
I’ll post the winner next Sunday:)

Windows and walls…..

amarylis blog

I want my life to be an open window
like the Irregardless of my childhood,
an artisan eatery in my hometown that became a sort of soul tattoo
and warmed my spirit like a cold frame
until my roots could grapple into roomier ground.

Wintertime sunshine poured through tall,  rough hewn windows
lined with green and growing things spilling from cracked pots with mottled glazes;
the raw beauty of their imperfection sang me open,
a fresh and fragrant living painting that infused my hope
and marked me.

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The food was poetry…….farmer’s market marries Van Gogh
and I marveled at the vibe and variety
as if watching new colors being born.
But the glory of the place,
where the creativity angels seemed to gather,
was the bathroom.

I’d slide away from my table and my lemon tahini
and fairly skip down the narrow hallway
to let my soul marinate in the sanctuary
of that tiny room I loved,
because every morsel of wall was splashed with a mural
so bold and daring and brilliant and expressive
it seemed to sing out loud in it’s ebullience,
someone’s heart poured out on walls;
and it made the rest of the world seem dredged in flour and fried up gray.

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But here,  gardens blossomed and spilled,  unconstricted,
down cinderblock and mortar
and became grafted into my sense of possibility.
I wanted this.
I want it still.

And sometimes now,  when life slaps me silly and I startle,
curling up tight for control,
I can unfurl again into that herby,  loamy smelling place of freedom
that got inside me then and something wildly fearless
gently stretches where my vision’s getting pinched
until it begins to reach out again beyond lines
that seem to be closing in
and I rethink walls.

They are just walls.

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“To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.”
-Emily Dickenson

 This is a re-write,  served up fresh again with some new ingredients,
because I needed to go there again.  Hope you enjoy:)
And I’ll be sending a copy of my little zine,  Ripplesongs,  to Donna Hopkins;
thanks for all the wonderful comments I got to plop into the hat!