Hopeful bench sitting
by an expanse of ice
waiting for the thaw
Happy Valentines Day and love to all in my life.
My darling daughter turned 21, and I got the great pleasure of treating her to a week in London. Of the many highlights, here are a few.
Taking photos of graffiti near Waterloo bridge. Getting a kick out of reading the names on the subway map & recognizing so many of them from pop culture
Playing tourist and checking out the locals.
Cramming in as many amazing exhibitions as our eyeballs and feet would allow.
Being Irish I thought I had a clue about the Celts, but this exhibition was an eye opener in more ways than one.
Only through a bloody miracle and some marginally immoral behavior did we catch our flight for a quick visit back to the West of Ireland. She was looking mysteriously celtic!
. . . and then I returned
to the comforting leak of the pantry light
across the kitchen floor
reclaiming the hearth
the carved out space
to creep beneath, inhabit
the familiar echo off the walls
a hum, deep inside me
a coming to earth
nestling into the embrace
of the small green chair
sinking back into the habitual
flow, feeling it wash over me
through winter chilled glass
reimagining myself with
owl moon, blue shadows on snow
car headlights tossing snowflakes
shattering my silence from below.
How much light in a winter sky!
the subtlety of mauve and rust and slate
heavy-bellied clouds floating
like seasoned bathers in a cold sea
each dwindling moment of olive oil light
caught in the wick of a seed of grass
chest-breaching call of the gulls
the lake surface a battered pewter plate
bouncing back the cupped light
medieval in its splendor
One small gift from the universe
an unintended consequence
benefiting the giver, taker
one momentary thread of spider
web light suspending
in one single tonal breath
body heat, one giant synchronized
joining of hands, shared
pulse resonating, thrumming
the fat base string
under your thump, thumping
heart beat one.
Sudden rush of feathers
draughting the air above me
small flocks of careening birds
fly low over the meadow
chased by strong tail winds
a dozen at a time joining
the twisting, turning mass
flowing across the evening sky
out over the lake, back over the trees
a pulsing organism, feinting left and right
like black drops of ink swirled in water
and then, on signal, they descend
in chattering swarms into the reed beds
their shrill conversations fill the air—
a murmuration of starlings at day’s end.