Tag Archives: sky

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rebirth

I take joy in the birth of the sun each morning and the winter promise of light and warmth and spring.

Joy to you and yours today!

I took this in late September, 2022. In the winter the sun does not rise above the bluff on North Beach.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: birth.

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Winter bless us

Winter bless us year end dark and freezing
winter turn us inwards prayer for joy
prayer for joy for young ones all are seizing
others mourn loved deaths, eschewing toys
darkness let us settle loving all
silence let us turn our thoughts to peace
walk in wind and birds, iced trees so tall
few are out to gently walk the streets
the frozen ground holds lives that lie in wait
in freezing seeds hear the call and know
let every human drop their arms and hate
while seeds lie in wait to grow
let winter’s silence fill our hearts with joy
let peace descend, war melt to children’s toys

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A poem for Christine Goodenough after reading her Winter Delights.

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be careful out there

Whew, the storm hitting in the United States is scary, with the really low temperatures, some people having lost power, and temperatures dropping super fast. Be careful! Here is my house, looking cosy in the snow this week. So far so good with power.

Ok, want to guess what the lights are supposed to be?

Please stay warm and be careful. In the southern states people don’t have the winter gear. I had some patients who were living in homes with no heat, so I hope they can go to a warming station.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: icicle.

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Piece meal

Trigger warning: gruesome humor?

I miss people at this time of year, only sometimes then I remember things that make me not miss them after all. That ambivalence. Love can be pretty complicated. Then I started thinking about what specifically I miss and then it morphed into this poem.

I really miss your hands: send them to me.
Send your heart too since you don’t use it.
You don’t see me or even look. I’ll take those eyes.
I miss your voice: send your tongue and larynx.
Bellows to mend, better add your lungs.
You eat too much protein, I’d care for those kidneys.
That brain is not too bad, I’ll admit. Ok, I’ll take it too.
Those feet and ankles and shins and legs are nice to walk with.
You really aren’t kind to your liver: I would be.
You can’t stomach me. Hand it over.
Most people don’t value their intestines nearly enough: I will.
You chose not to listen to me: abandoned ears, finder’s keepers.
You surely won’t use the bits that are left. Give them to me.
I may not reassemble you correctly but it will keep me entertained.
Piece meal.

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The photograph is from January 2022, on the east coast.

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winter bloom 2

WordPress keeps asking daily questions. Today I will answer: my life today IS what I expected a year ago. Which is darkly funny when it involves feeling cynical about someone who claims we’ll be friends forever. Developmentally stuck, I guess. Though I do think people can change and heal some things. Sometimes they don’t, though.

For Cee’s Flower of the Day.

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Small wounds

Small wounds over and over.

“The band is invited to Arizona. We’ll be on the radio. And I am trying to set up a recording.”

She keeps her eyes down. Tries not to hope. She has time, she could take time off. She has saved so much vacation, hoping. They would have to have someone stay with the kids.

“It’s going to be a great trip. I haven’t spent anything from the last big sale yet, been saving it for something like this. I was hoping we could record.”

She is wiping the counter slowly, over and over.

“That sale was amazing, just when I needed it. Debts paid and caught up.”

She works in the local government. Steady. It gives them health insurance. Secure retirement. Nothing spectacular. She turns to the sink, to rinse the cloth. The counter is clean enough. She isn’t going to think about it any more.

“That is great.” She tries not to hate the band. “At work–“

He is behind her and hugs her. “You are so great, here for me. We are going in three weeks. February. Perfect time for Arizona, I can’t wait for some sun.”

She tries to feel comforted by his hug and yields to it, as always. She is silent.

“Now make sure you don’t let the kids talk you into giving them too many things while we’re gone.”

She nods.

He kisses her head. He lets go and gets his guitar and coat. “Have a good weekend. I have to practice.” He is headed for the trailer, in the next county, alone for the weekend, to immerse in music.

She turns and watches as he leaves.