Stella to the blue

in the still quiet thrum of morning
all the words have been written
no revelation
no revolution
no eureka-thesaurus moment where words & time roll into the place of always
nothing but the early thrum of day dawning

morning

stillness

a breeze barely rocking the curly willow
ghost dog curled against my back--pressing pressing
tendered always
a sky carousel-blue...unreal in hand-dipped perfection

sunshine strikes my face
eyes close
here upon a weathered-dried-in-the-sun cotton quilt
in a cicada field green-summer-golden

morning

stillness

a breeze barely rocking the curly willow
a distant thrum from rivers wide
pressing

all the words have been written
there is no more than this ...

a bluejay sings its warrior song
claiming this piece of carousel-blue
always
Stella May June

datum

....given a different latitude & longitude
the drape of water might have felt different

given a certain tincture of contentment
there might have been time contained within the velvet box of us

given a moon phase reflected in amber & nobility
we might not be here now

perhaps there would be cake
or the repetitive lapping splash of tides

given riches or earth resplendent in darkness biding
sunbeams hiding
beyond the atmospheres of this golden field

would we be?
would we care enough to pause in the pace & space of our hours
to notice
the tightening recognition of the impossible

venus in gemini

of a June Morning . . . this morning
wrapped in the haze of promised storms

this morning

coolness
grayness

the fullness of birdsong fills my body with a trembling vibration
my blood becomes feathered
rising
rising
to
search for the sun 

when you open the hand that grasps

is it ever enough?

the lingering in the darkness?

what happens when you misplace the amber?
when one's own luminous light becomes enough to open...

the trope of letting go bleeds slowly across time
a mystery resin cured by loss & longing

is it ever enough?

the robin sings its forecast simple & soft
against the press of thunder & daylight
your goldenness is illusive
love's mystery recedes to the edges of my tongue

living with enough
brilliant the ring of fire
rich the day 

Alone

Pressed to the edges of the hedgerow
smoothed gesso'd field laid pristine in its awakening

Spring

heralds a whiteness born of shadows
birch tree lined
labyrinthine
to be lost is to found and lost again

here I remain
resolute

unyielding in my discomfort made blue
by this May Sky Morning 

self as girl

still
the girl in school who gets picked last
too tall
too skinny to be good or fast

at anything

listening to led zeppelin & csn&y
too much perfectionist to really know why

...to swing the bat
...to take a shot
discover a way to untie the knot

deep inside
perfection instant
too blond
too weird
and oh so much fear

knowing i had landed on the wrong planet
cat stevens & james taylor my constant companions
all the while peering over the edge of soul's canyon
playing at self & pseudo attraction
tidy & pink in lace pajamas
(tempting the wild, tending the fire)
serving kings & polar bears, little joe & yogi bear
listening to the whispered desperation of the lost & terrified
heart wrapped in glass & thorn'd armor pride

but right there, all along for all to see on heart's sleeve
silent
(everyone assumes apathy)
(emptiness)
(blue ice coolness)
it is a pounding feeling that trembles the earth
paralyzing
rising
tapping into something bigger--brighter--a shaky joyous mirth

is there ever a master plan?
is there a reason?

too much of everything
perfection the mask
resilience the game
not about who gets picked first at all
but who stands alone
with 

a pink lace pajama-heart & wildfire throne 

chartreuse & blue

swallowed I am
by chartreuse and  blue

awash
in these beams of day
sunlight streams to bones and qualling thoughts
becoming blue
becoming transparent green
holding holding
thrumming to the sounds of wrens & sky
shattering sorrow into a million tiny pieces
of
blue