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I am mundane and magical, Silly and serious. I am an underachiever who suspects that someday in the eternities I may yet blossom and even fruit. I am a collector of spirits and essences, a studier of mood and nuance.I have many many faults and yet I've always been loved. I am a good friend, but I will let you go if you so desire. I believe in Somewhen. I laugh easily and cannot often cry, which I know is a Flaw. Like You, I am a work in progess.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

The poem I turned in for class. I still cannot get this right


He drove the fresh plowed road surely,
so surely that my distrustful body-
primed with
years of my mother’s frantic tailgating to stave off
my father’s jealous, controlling clasp of rage-
relaxed and turned off the alarms.

Anticipating destination,
sharp pitched cabin roof
with a song of hearth and home in fragrant wood smoke
curling from the chimney pipe.
We’d spoon, warm in winter snow silence.
Private and unsought.

In the lines of his stoic, Nebraska face I saw the hidden skills.
Snow skills for sure,
I’d watched him shovel crisp geometric divisions
Razor sharp.
I’d seen him plow, no wasted motion, clearing big, clean piles unobtrusively

My breaths made steamy circles on the window as I watched-
With my California snow- wondering eyes

“What are you looking at?” he glanced my way.
It was a snowfield,
fresh from horizon to horizon,
a mystery of pines set well back.
I said, “The sparkles in the snow”
 for there they danced,
miniscule rainbows
 scintillating like the happy, noiseless chuckling of God.

He drove another quarter mile
Then pulled the Sable to the roadside.
“I’ve never seen that before” he said.
I gawked in disbelief, but was quiet.

“Thank you for the ways you’ve let me see.”

I felt then, deep and blooming in my center
radiating out-
That whole worlds are layered
One over another
And sometimes we can watch the birth
Of a new perception.

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