Swaddled in the Arms of the Lover

I have juggled
my way
past sunset

to another full moon rise
that swells
over the orange and pink horizon

like a machine
throwing the light
over the fence

with all the loot
bundled
like there was
a fortune

swaddled in the arms
of the Lover.

Already There

The night has chiseled a thrifty corner for sleeping
as the day crumbles away again.

Such drudgery blisters the mind
and can only minister to these wounds
by closing eyes and a mind where thoughts
are deserted like every body

left behind by the heart
not to be hobbled
by insignificant love.

Leave me,
a prisoner
who is afraid
to walk free

when she is already there.

Singing Again

In my new life
I have been known
to sing in the shower,

in the kitchen,
in the front row,
in the gardens,

to warble with the radio,
from the crater
that was my heart's home
before it malfunctioned.

So full is this former mumble
that now plumes of joy
boil and billow like steam
from the heat.

Birds fly near me
queasy in the frenetic sound.
The vibrations scant imitations
of sacred songs, chanting,
twittering and trying to catch the harmony
of some familiar tune.

One More Time

I am always moved
by the avalanche of color
in these hills of Vermont
even if it is October.

Treacherous as letting beauty enter the heart of things,
like blossoms murmuring under the soil,
in bulbs and chestnuts buried by squirrels,

I carelessly wander these frosty pastures,
I take the texture of words
into my mouth and let them melt,

and I will mindfully latch the iron gates
so that we might stroll unconcerned
about getting hurt.

I remember tracing your cleanly shaven face
with the tips of my fingers
and the way leaves sound when we walk
close to the earth at the ends of summer.

If the hammock is still hanging between the trees,
I will pretend the snow hasn't already drifted past the windows
and will stretch out under this harvest moon

one more time.

Rising

The plight of another gray morning
is to throw off the quilts,
confounding the vapor of fatigue,

and rise as the hero
in my own story
against the thrum,

aghast at the thought
that I will not champion
each breath.

There is no retribution
as my feet touch
the cool wood of the floor,

only a chance for reflection
at the constant flow of curiosity
of what comes next.

Coffee, shower, selecting the costume
for the day. Oatmeal or toast.
Vitamins. Kisses from my children.
The car starting without a hack.

Pulling out of the driveway.
Arriving safely after an hour
of dodging semi after green Vermont plates.

Computers, conversations, endless meetings.

Laughter, hate, frustration, brilliance of kind souls.

Home to cooking.
Home to gentle light
at the end of barking orders.
Home to the comfort of night
in my simple bed
in my own skin
and with intentions
to leave nothing
in my wake.