A Little Bit Of Sunshine

    apologetic rainbow I remember now, the damn point of it all.  It occurs to me in trickles, slow bursts of momentum and then a huge wave, flooding me with realization at four-thirty. It matters. The four-thirty part.  The limbo between night and day. Nothing magical happens at four-thirty. It's utterly unremarkable. Except today. Because today, one remarkable text flashes on my phone : you're an amazing writer, you know that I retrieve the words back into my lab for testing... No matter how much I try to cool it, they won't solidify. I rearrange them, sit them on my tongue I wait for them to change shape as the sun comes up. But they remain.  I'm unfamiliar with this formula, with equations that don't equal zero. As in, zero chances you're ever gonna make it or create anything meaningful . But now at four thirty...this curious anomaly. The variable I didn't consider.  Was that the point didn't have anything to do with me. It's a freedom of a kind.

When I am embittered by the ills that be  I lick my paws, stretch my limbs  Run across valley and hill To see the sad girl watch.  It is a day of endless pursuit  On my way, I encounter delicious prey But no such pleasures thrill me more Than seeing the sad girl watch.  It's getting dark The owl has come out of hiding  And I worry I'm too late.  Still I run.  To see the sad girl watch There she is! A warm and lonely figure Beneath the setting sun  She sits with a simple grace Oh what I’d give to taste  The look of awe on her face The wisdom in that gaze.  It's why I run here Same time same place.  We never speak  She and I  But ever so rarely  She looks me in the eye I'd like to think in understanding  I'd like to think in careful smile And then she's gone In a flash of curly hair.  I'd like to think she waits for me.  That when she is embittered by the ills that be  She hikes across forest and field  To see the pale fox run. 

When I am embittered by the ills that be… I fasten my boots, roll up my sleeves And hike across forest and field to see the pale fox run. It is a day of endless journey, Of vivid blues and deep greens So beautiful they don’t seem real But no such wonders delight me more Than seeing the pale fox run. It’s getting late And shadows are gathering  Some have faces and others growl Still I wait.  To see the pale fox run.  There he is!  A flash of silver and gold – Beneath the setting sun.  He hurtles across with devastating  grace. Oh what I’d give to taste  The wind in his face.  The freedom in his tail.  It’s why I come here,  Same time same place.  We share no words,  I and he.  But ever so rarely He looks back at me.   I’d like to think in sympathy  I’d like to think in invitation. And then he disappears,  A whisper of wind and tail.  I’d like to think he returns for me. That when he is embittered by the ills that be, He runs across mountain and valley To see the sad girl watch.        

Have I ever held anything as gently as I am holding your gaze?  I feel its warmth across my face.  In our hands are steaming cups of tea That for the life of me, I can't seem to taste.  The pot could tip over and we'd hardly notice.  There are few words spoken aloud, the rest transmitted through the sound of our hearts pitter pattering in code: do I have news to tell you! you'll never guess what happened   Girl, what are you up to I'd forgotten what it felt like.  To reach across the table and find a hand, open and waiting.  To utter a thought and hear its echo reflected right back.  We are twelve again, Unladylike laughter spilling over our lips You still tug the truth from me with an unrelenting grip.  We are sweet and sixteen.  Our hands gesticulating wildly, smacking our hips.  We are young and hopeful, gi ddy in our naiveté.  At twenty, our battered feet are making their way to firm ground.  Over there in the distance, the sun is taking its final bow But the day is

When your scars have finally disappeared And you start to somewhat resemble yourself again Once you've picked up the shards of your dignity And held it up to the light, weighed it in the palm of your hand and said This'll do What's left of you? When you've survived the Big Thing that split you in two I know you curled up in agony, I know it squeezed you empty  But here you are, an outlier of sorts Spread out on the floor  With a curious kind of grace.  When you've gathered yourself again, from where you fled What's left to do?  Well...you get to choose.  Which sweater will I wear today, white or blue?  You get to care what you wear again.  You climb on the roof and admire the view.  You look up again. Not to know where you're going but to see where you are.  It baffles you how many sunsets you've taken for granted.  You enjoy these simple pleasures.  You give up your search for the great treasure of ancient legend. Instead you collect it in small measur

I feel most beautiful  when my hands are blistered and  splattered with ink from gripping the pen  too tight while working on a particularly passionate piece.  When I'm all out of ink, my phone makes a great substitute in a pinch Upon questioning, I'd claim nothing compares to the weight of a notebook in my hands...  But honestly? It makes no difference to me.  And on that note I'm off ...fingers flying across the keypad.  I demand, I question, I cry and pray I play a six string quartet- And then it's over. The contents of my heart  poured out in 14 meager lines. Then comes the hard part: Sharing it with you. I fear you must tire of my endless chanting "poetry, poetry, poetry" Never singular, it echoes like a pulse.  There are moments you forget it's there, your heartbeat,  And then suddenly, everything slows And you are anatomy and blood vessel than soul.  I like the moments where I am creature more than being.  Where my hands are mere tools and my heart