Sometimes I am only interested in small things.
The chocolate bar, a hot bath.
The turned down corner of a book page, the beauty of the sky.
This is not unhappiness.
Yet, still I dress in layers
I wrap a scarf around my heart like a tourniquet
to keep the darkness from bleeding out.
It’s winter inside of me,
but the frost has not yet taken over.
My soul still hints of blue birds,
jazz notes, Monet paintings.
My soul attuned to spring.
I hide it in the closet for later.
It’s always a balance regardless of the season.
There’s still daisies in need of planting, leaves in need of raking.
Tonight, restlessness breaks
like a coconut, open windowed,
Where is serenity?
For weeks its been walks, poetry and Miles Davis.
I grow stranger with each passing year,
more sensitive, more aware.
I long to flame the wind
with a strike of a match
only it knows.
I long to praise the weeds, the wildflowers.
Who’s to say which is which?
I’m still seeking glitter, the pull of a sliver boned moon,
the litter of pixie dust.
Now before Neverland becomes never.
Now before life is tossed downriver,
spinning in time’s current.
My restless heart, wait to be taken away,
beyond the window, to starlight things.
To design a language I can dance to,
to find kismet in avoiding the side steps and serenity in the fall.