Whatcha Gonna Do . . .

This isn't ski country.

No mountains.  No chair lifts.

No powder freaks.

This isn't beach country either.

So, don't even think about warm sand

or surfers

or kids picking up sea shells.

That would be a mistake.

Instead, keep your eyes sharp, focused on finding sparklers.

Signs of life, however minute.

Focus on those.

Because, folks, this is the Mid West.

And, what you're gonna need about now

is a LOT of heart.

HEART will shove you into your coat and boots and lead you out to find that little thaw.

And, when you do, small as it may be,

a numbness that threatened to take hold of you

will kind of let go.

And something full-spectrum will ease your mood.

Heart will convince you not to worry

about your stiffening cold fingers

as you wait for the moon

to snag in the boughs

and rest there for a minute.

Heart will encourage you to marvel, if a bit reluctantly, at the smallest of creatures,

 like this little one, 

surviving his first winter, adorned by his first snow. 

It's always the FIRST time for someone, somewhere.

And, heart makes you care about that, wish him well.

As the light shifts,

your newly acclimated eyes

will pick up all the GOLD

randomly scattered by an ordinary sunset.

 That's when you'll KNOW you've made it.
You're not just living.
    You're breathing it in.

You're fully equipped

to be here

NOW.

The plain-ness of things

doesn't threaten you

any more.

The jitters are gone.

It's just space.

And HEART fills it up with life.

That, my friend,

is what we're gonna do.

This is my 54th time.

So, I feel fairly comfortable saying

it's not a bad way to go.

Ramblers

It's good, I think,

now and again

to toss off one's identity

and go bare.

To feel the tenderness exposed

when wandering far away

from home.

Seeing one's life

cupped in the hands

of the pilot,
the bellhop,

the taxi driver.

Relishing
vacancy,
space for absorbing

new beauty.

Tolerating that one
quivering moment
when hollow alienation
skitters in.

Tapping your shoulder,
rattling

as you press your way

through herds of bicycles 

buses

and banging doors

back,
thank God,

to that borrowed room

you'll call home for a time.

Because, hey,
we're all tourists here
on this orb
we've endearingly named Earth.

Why not admit it?

Why not feel it in our bones?

And dare to
 ramble
while we've got the chance?

An Awkward Absence

So, the love letter is finished.

And that is that.

What comes next takes grit.

Entering the unlit passage

where we wait

as the old year passes away
and the new year yearns to be born.

Some of us wait more comfortably than others.

But, we're all suspended here

dangling in the dim in-between.

Prepared?

Probably not.

But, we'll manage.

Put out birdseed.

Launder blankets.

Recruit the battered snow shovel.

Gather.

Pull our families in around us like knitted shawls.

Crave what warms and cheers.

Relish what nourishes body and soul.

Insisting in our wise and stubborn hearts 
 it will be worth it.

Because it will.  By God, it will.

Love Letter

I know you have to go.  

It's time.

But, I'll remember you.

In your hot brights,

and sparkling silks, I'll remember you.

Thirsty days,

Liquid nights, I'll remember you.

Touches sweet,

kisses deep, I'll remember you.

Forever warm, rich and ripe, I'll remember you.

This much is true.

Wild Blackberries

I assembled my paints, soaked the paper

and tuned in to "the fish fry" for atmosphere.

I took that as encouragement from the universe!

and slid into muse mode.

Which turned out to be mad, crazy fun!

 The process of mixing colors and loading brushes

was as beautiful and gratifying

as the actual painting.

Oh, how happy you have made me.

Every little step revealed its magic.

                                                                    And time dissolved into pure joy. 

            Because, to me, painting is a form of play.

  which, in my case, seems to be a blessing . . .

and so begins another weekend.

Oops, we're a few hours into Saturday already.

Night night.

(P.S.  Anybody hungry for pie?)

Thistle Seed Drifter

Today, quite honestly, I do not feel inspired.

Or visionary.

Or particularly energized.

I don't.

So, rather than fight it, I think I'll drift for a while here.

Like the thistle seed within it's whispery, furry pod,

adrift on the breeze.

Flounced by updrafts,

parachuting back toward earth in downdrafts.

It's okay, I think, to travel this way

from time to time.

It'll have to be.

Until I land on that just right spot of earth

alive with moisture, sun and shade

waiting

for a drifter like me.