carrying the colors north

emory standing in the bright blaze
of spring sun on whitehouse porch
home-made pinwheel in his hand held up
to breeze
film-quality in mostly-stillness with spinning-of-pinwheel movement
film-quality in the way the light lays itself
over his bright hair and tender face
and this is the way the day hands its beginning to me
while the cats await their food bowls filled
_______

arranging the sprig of flowering quince
in porcelain-ish vase saluting
two light daffodils
caught by cynthia quietly approaching up the road/path
_______
the sound of some small crash drawing our attention
garden-shed-wards where ashby
sits framed in one of the six panes
of busted-out-glass window
and how something about this juxtaposition
(him framed perfectly
looking out at us at the picnic table
from his front row seat)
makes all eight of us laugh
_______
not sure how to do anything gracefully i say
in regards to polyamory-slash-the rest of life
in combination with polyamory as afternoon sun

lays itself over the angles and curves
of my cheeks/nose/face
_______
this i say pointing to the plastic handles
on the small saucepan where the
walking onions are frying when trish asks
about the (burning plastic) smell
_______

she catches me
in the middle of my cookshift from her
one-hour-earlier time zone
and we trade reports of
external and internal weather
 ferocious southwest spring winds and
lots of different weather patterns
moving through she says
and it is not the first time i have been appreciated
for my uninhibited appreciation/love of pop music
_______

doctors without borders world map
taped to wall in a place where i will gaze/
set eyes on often
_______

kitten birdie and not-so-kitten ashby bounding
alongside/ahead/behind me
along the curve of the gravel backroad
where we catch a sunset
whose blues and deep red remind me
of the southwest whose winds
might have been blowing so hard that
they carried these colors north
_______

twinkling/snapping to what chani says:
As soon as Venus is done finding her way through the south node’s vortex, she meets up with Chiron, the wounded healer. This is not a week to pretend that you aren’t human, tender, wounded, wonderful and vulnerable to your heart’s deepest longings.

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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