on growing

a stretch --
-- suppling
or something.

i will allow myself to be influenced.

horses

i would watch them for longer, if i could.
if life were long enough just to stand
at the edge of a fence at the end of the day.
when the sun is sliding toward the crest of that hill
and frogs begin humming their songs in the pond ---
there are no more manmade sounds.
i would watch the darkening gleam of their backs
in the fading light which turns white into pink and orange,
black into purple, brown into red.
when the smell of sweet hay bursts into my nostrils
i will be truly content to hear jaws move methodically,
hooves press softly into the spring's earth.
tails swish to reach buzzing flies,
and over the hill, coyotes cry, they howl
for their young to draw near, to curl golden warm bodies into dens.
these horses will gather to eat their hay;
they don't even know their own perfect grace.
perhaps life is long enough after all, for this:
a quiet song at the end of the day.

winter is not over

cold is a sharpness that presses in on all sides
a bed of nails
an inescapable truth

bright and gentle future

longing for spring, i step out into the world

careful on the ice, silly pretty shoes

no hat, happy to be touched by comfortable air

at the market i buy pussywillows for one dollar

and my spirit soars just to look at them

soft and promising and kind in a glass on the windowsill

tomorrow i'll take the saskatoons from the freezer

to make treats that feel like summer

and maybe step out into the world again, reclaiming.

a rocky start

These days I've been thinking a lot about bravery.  About how it is closely related to honesty.  How I am honest with myself but now lack the bravery to take action.

I want to sit in a sunny room, drink coffee, write poems and stories and make art with paper and thread.  Why would I ever do otherwise?

This year's had a rocky start.  I hope I make it better before summertime, because I can't let summer be ruined for anything.

to be honest

i traveled through a wide field on horseback

it was not hard at all to deafen all sounds

with wind in my ears like a force field

until my breath rasped out raw

legs and arms softly failed

hoofbeats a breaking rhythm    heat and life closes in

it always does     if you’re honest enough to stop

another letter to you, it's february 8, 2011

Dear friend,

Sometimes when I selfishly think of all of the worst things that have happened in my life, I think of you. I wish I didn't; I wish you were only the best thing, and nothing else.  But you were.  You were both -- the best thing when you were here, and your death the worst.

How can I still struggle with realizations that I am profoundly different because of the fact that you died?  My heart circles around the same drain.  I wonder how long before I put a plug in it.

All this is to say that I miss you.  I wish you were here to help me decide how to live my life these days.  This was something you were always good at.  Something I haven't been.

Love,

Deanna

vague couplets

the poems are falling into a pattern.

must read more.

to be brave

i dreamed you up again
the only way to see you now

endless wheat field and golden light
and your hair and your hands

you knew what to do
you always did

you told me what it was
but when i woke, i forgot

i would have to be brave
to be honest this time

this time and every time

february

craggy aspens stripped bare brace spindly arms against snow
they are white on white on white    ground air sky
along the sides of a country road i know so well
and i want to go there every day    at least in my mind
touch frost with my fingertips without getting burned
let the air crack into my lungs    thin and crisp like snapping twigs
but for now it's sludgy streets    red lights    walk signals
busy cafe and neon pizza signs emblazoned across the street
too many colours here  
not enough white