I’ve been pushing around paint for the past couple of days. If that sounds semi-aggressive to you, you’d be right. I’ve pulled out the cheap brushes and the cheap studio canvas and I’ve been just relishing the chaos. “Inner Chaos, meet Outer Chaos. I’m sure you’ll get along just fine.”
Most people looking at what I was doing right now would probably say “but Sarah, that’s just a big blue mess.” And I’d say “yes, that’s exactly what that is.” But it’s a satisfying mess. And better out than in.
tonight, it’s the Blues
that slow-doleful prayer for understanding –
a measure of salt for the cheeks on a night spent by the window
with a glass of something that burns (on the rocks, of course)
and that solitary pine for companion
tonight, it’s the Blues, yes
but tomorrow, I’ll be Jazz
the crocuses have awoken, a defiant yellow flare against the bricks
and my shoes have grown fonder this year of puddles than I might wish
so much so, that my toes have pruned by the end of the day
yet I am reluctant to cast them off –
who am I to come between lovers in the spring?
I never told you that for weeks, the graffiti on the backs of the bus seats said quest and that’s how I knew to kiss you
here now, wondering what’s next, someone has scrawled exodus
and the pain was a hook she had swallowed – a bright, relentless sun which burned beneath her heart without the relief that ash would bring –
and the heat rising up from her throat carried with it the most fervent prayer for darkness that the sky had yet heard – so frightening that the moon hid herself within her shadow
oh take, take was the plea, but the pain could only give, as was its nature
Some broken things, in the right light, still shine. And in a perfect wind, the fragmentary might fly. But mostly we forget this and gather too closely the sharp edges to our chest – seeking solace in those pieces that are left.
This damp January morning has drained the color from the sky and all it touches – everything is a shade of sidewalk. All but the unexpected pink of the sand cherry, which bursts out to laugh at the gray as I walk by. It seems that even trees can tease.
Freyja-dog, who finds treasure in green felt clown hats discarded on damp sidewalks and joy in the orphaning of bright socks and mittens, gladly bears the burden of my happiness.
On good days, she skips after the crows when they tease her and spins whirling dervish style in ecstatic circles at the feet of her chosen favorites. But on bad days, I bear her up and down the three flights of stairs and sleep on the floor to keep her company.
This is no burden while joy still resides in tail and eyes, infectious and whole. She deserves all this and more. Anything else I will tuck into the darkest corner beneath the bed so I will not have to speak it.
I’ve known for some time now that my girl has intervertebral disc disease. She’s coming out of her worst flare up to date and I’m three weeks into carrying her up and down the stairs and sleeping on the floor with her. Her condition is still very manageable with anti-inflammatories and rest, but my heart twinges each time this happens and my poor Freyja is laid up. But I can tell she’ll be back to her old self soon – is already getting frustrated with the forced inactivity. Another three weeks of caution and rest and we’ll be back to chasing the pigeons.