storm at Rachel Lake

every branch was made big with wind while we sat diminished hunkered down with steaming cups, muddied boots, cold-red cheeks, together beneath that orange tarp cracking with every gust we stayed, shivered, laughing while others fled the storm - a splendid day, my splendid friend © Sarah Whiteley

for Shi Shi

out here the rain and your book are my only companions, and the only thing that matters is the campfire and keeping the sparks (bright, living) from too-close legs where fabricated light cannot reach solitude is no longer secondary, but breathes with my breath, and pauses in the dark - intending everything, but only later … Continue reading for Shi Shi

extra cinnamon

startled stranger, you may be wondering how it is that quite suddenly what very much appears to be nothing other than a slightly misshapen pumpkin (yes, take a gentle whiff) pancake has turned up, or rather fallen, onto the stiff blue wool shoulder of your winter coat it's just that the crows were hungry and … Continue reading extra cinnamon

Joy (repost)

the good days Freude, are those days that schoener Goetterfunken in spite of the noise Tochter aus Elysium, the naggings wir betreten the sagging weight feuertrunken, of worry, responsibility Himmlische, the ignorance dein Heiligtum. and uncarefulness deine Zauber of others binden wieder the sometimes blatant was der Mode disregard, disrepair Schwert geteilt of how the … Continue reading Joy (repost)

THE MUSE

I’m just learning this morning of Cynthia’s passing. She was immensely talented and I’m so grateful for her support over the years. She was kind, and lovely, and I will miss her little corner of the ‘net most terribly.

Rest well, dear Cynthia!

littleoldladywho.net

The Muse is usually a she
according to art history.
More than once I’ve
served in that capacity.

I’ve also known it as a he
a love, an ardent kind
of sustenance, a boon
to heart and mind.

In the end I think
it is a voice inside
wherever the best
part of me abides.

It is ancient, bardic,
will not be cajoled
or come when called
or do as it is told.

“Do the work,” it says,
“and leave the door ajar.
Do not worry.
I know where you are.”
.
.
THE MUSE

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the winter roost

the crows come again, perch within the remnants of summer - turned to rust and rue; they've come again with their own narrative, their inscrutable truths - strike their own lines against November's sky, while we try blindly (futile) to navigate stolen darknesses; fixed, and non-migratory - roosting in huddled groups for the long and … Continue reading the winter roost