“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


aurora - from northeast texas

last night a crescent moon in a misty sky.  despite everything.

i tried to write about friday and failed.
i only have words and they are worthless.
what i thought on friday was my god  a thousand times,
in response to the slaughter,
in response to blame being assigned to everyone and everything except the shooter.

but that's what we do.
we want answers when there are none.
that no answers  thing is the scariest thing of all.


i'd turned on the tv without sound as i usually do, turned on the computer, and looked up to see the words scrawling across the bottom of the screen.  and i thought my god, and i thought how many? and i turned up the volume.  with the first few details i thought white guy, and i thought crazy, which is no doubt politically incorrect to say, but i thought it anyway.  i thought they will blame the guns, they will blame the movie, they will blame his parents, and i thought what is wrong with us?, and i had to remind myself that bad things happen sometimes no matter what you do.

i thought we can't fix this, all we can do is learn to live through it, if possible.  i thought we need survival skills; we aren't taught those, but we should be and we need them.  i thought of the passengers on flight 93, thought we needed to be those people, but also thought i have no idea if i can.

by late afternoon i'd heard blame assigned where i hadn't expected - rush limbaugh, president obama, the tea party, and i had to stop listening.  i saw a reporter refusing to step away from the shooter's father as he stood in line at the airport, waiting for the flight to aurora, and i had to stop watching. i'd discussed it with friends, not searching for an answer, just needing to say words out loud.  the panic attack hit at 7, while i stood in the grocery store, and it pushed me back into the evening heat, hurrying me home.

the tv stayed off and i worked crossword puzzles and read a bad romance novel.  but even there, in those pages, there it was.  scotland, the 1500s or 1300s, i have no idea - people rounded into a church and the church set afire.  i thought of the same scene in mel gibson's the patriot.  i suppose if one wants to kill a lot of helpless people, there all all kinds of ways to do it.  bullets aren't necessary.


at work this morning i found a doubleleaf heart waiting for me outside the door.
when the ups guy showed up i said give me your hand, and he did.
i like the way he's holding that leaf as if might break.



summer. take 2.

the world outside is taking a breath, and i with it.  july is here, and brought with her a weekend of rain when she opened the door, this summer so unlike last summer, cooler, wetter, greener.  this morning we are all sunshine, a sunshine that is a color yet unnamed - bright, lighting up the house, begging to be partaken of.  

some once-again amazing sunshine out there.  thanksgiving in july.  gratitudes.  big swooshes of movement.  walls to be painted, canvases also, moving me through the remaining days of summer.  i have neglected my camera this year and maybe there will be pictures.  typing tightens my shoulder and i have stayed away from long bits of it, nodding to this sign from the universe.  time to get my hands dirty and my brain emptied of thoughts, painting always my meditation.  my shoulder needs a bigger space than i've been giving it.  time to get physical.

friday, july 13:
by noon the emma tree was down. 
by 12:15 the places on the wall scraped bare by her limbs were sanded and painted. 
by 12:30 she was propped against a different wall in a back room.

i thought it would make me sad, but no.  it made me smile.  it made her smile.  i'd forgotten all the bruises and broken limbs she'd suffered these last few years, forgotten how she was held together in places with wire and ribbons.  no more.  the broken parts are gone and she is resting, healing, waiting for me to find her next home.

it's been in my mind a while, to help her down from that tiresome spot, but others said no, she should stay, and so i left her, but i ignored her.  when a bulb burned out, it stayed burned out.  not on purpose, but it stayed dark.  that corner of the front room . . . well, it seemed neglected.  sad.

so i will start there first.
the yellow-once-vibrant blue walls will change again.
a canvas as big as a room.



because surely those glass slippers were damned uncomfortable

if i'd  told the tale,
cinderella's shoes would've been made of enchanted flowers,
and when she saw those babies on her feet,
she would so understand that she didn't need prince charming to help her get away.
she would suddenly see the magic in her own two feet and off she would go.




saturday was a wedding.


sunday was a funeral after a death on thursday.
she was 87, married 64 years when she buried her husband last fall,
burying her heart with him,
choosing her casket ahead of her time,
the palest of barely there baby girl pinks.
no somber goodbye colors for her.
she was saying hello, i think.


i wish for saturday's bride such a love.
64 years.
my god, what a thing.


the cemetery was hot with july and few breezes,
and my drive home was sprinkled with raindrops,
with the smell of that rain against hot asphalt,
the way rain smells in the summer, when it is just a touch on your shoulder,
when you quick turn around look behind you and it's not there,
just its perfume hanging in the air. 
just a ghost of rain.  



summer humidity with cat

oh god, the graying fading silence of the almost gone sun, this time of day when all my prayers and wishes of the day grow wings and find nests in the trees, leaving me emptied of the hours gone before; oh god, this silence, this oncoming night, the last of the shadows moving into darkness.  thou art everywhere but i worship thee here.  soft go the cats.


big and bitey
and i must decide door open door closed?
summer humidity with cat sprawled in front of door open
watching cat across the street sprawled in front of door closed.
fan blowing my hair all itchy against my face.
not yet dusk, not still day.

the air stays hot until late.  days ago the crescent moon hung tipsy in the sky straight up overhead and i stood in the yard and breathed in the warm moonlight and listened to the tree frogs and the night was a piece of faded blue wool, smothering, no breeze.  i slapped away the bugs and stood there in the stickiness.  on my face, my arms.  under my breasts.  my god what a night.  tonight the full moon waits with outstretched arms.  

last night the sky was almost starless;
i pushed aside tree limbs,
searching for venus.
summer, thou art loved.