tales of a flightless bird
spring is slow returning
In the north
Snow is still pillows on the ground in april and rests on the knees of restless children
This year i am grateful for the cold
Wool sweaters are weaving themselves into my wrists
Even as my toes embrace the blades that grow
I am clinging to what’s left of this winter
Before i am forced outwards
I believe in you, my soul
I stopped writing for awhile. Stopped singing, stopped painting. I spent this winter on pause -- the wintry ice trapping my blue sneakers to my bedroom floor, my face pale, my lips blue and my eyes gray, and they all saw through my walls.
But then the moon came out -- it wasn’t spring enough yet to see the sun from my bedroom window but the moon burned over the hill and lit me on fire. And all of a sudden I could see the stars again, and I laughed at the squirrels skittering over the frozen ground. And maybe it was the sleep standing on my corneas or the coffee doing backflips in my blood veins, but it was as if the earth was screaming through me, a last desperate attempt to make me understand and I yelled to the softest star
I believe in you my soul
My conductor
The soil on floorboards and the dust in sunbeams
My voice
I believe in you.
And in the moment the very Earth rendered me mute with its message, I found my voice.