the swarm of ants
scurrying about on the log (that is their home) catching blaze
in the coals of the stove
how i whisper my apologies and blessings upon this discovery

up til three a.m. i say, moving slow from undersleep
reading a book

the bright rainbowed variations
of flags printed (by kate, the boatbuilder) with a linoleum cut image
of the grand canyon
flapping and flipping between the two posts they are strung to
in the wind

orange glow and continuous crackling
from the fire in the stove 
as it heats and cools
leaning in for a closer look
at the colors woven together in mica’s
rag rug as she 
selects strips and up/downs them
(i don’t recall all the colors, but i do recall the light blue)

i had to walk myself through, outloud, getting into that shower
matt says about a disgustingly dirty shower
in a disgustingly dirty place he and caroline and henri
visited last year

hot box, we could call it i say of the cedar room
under the influence of a fire in the stove
built with logs big enough
that i’m down to a tank top and skirt
to do yoga
on this 40-something degree day

the bucket brigade baigz says
as i pull up a bucket to sit next to  him on his bucket
at dinner in the kitchen which is what one might call a full house

the act of

cynthia shaving curliques of wood off edges while i
trim the pieces up on the table saw
slowly, these piles of wood becoming
on this day of cool and rainy
all the cats curled up in the same spot
(on the blankets on the drying racks in the bike shed – gibbous and ashby curled up while moonstar rolls solo)
for its entirety
the perfect texture with the 
perfect sized air pockets at the
perfect warm temperature
of dottie’s sourdough
sliced and spread with butter
next the the chili in my bowl
for lunch
the brightness and rainbow 
of kate’s canyon (prayer) flags
that i unfurl from their rolled up wrapping
in the mail
be resolute cynthia says
about the decision/act of leaving

won’t you take me to – smoky town i sing to darien,
commenting on the impossible smokiness that often results
from opening the door to this woodstove
before we descend the steps towards dinner

the blooms of heat
opening on me/in me
while i practice the steady
rise-fall of breath, 
of lungs emptying, filling, emptying, filling
cold nose (running),
and a hood up over my hat
and the will to lay these words down
because when my nose insists on staying cold
the only thing i want to do is climb deeper
under covers

like an egg

_______i’ve been having dreams about it (leaving, getting out)
and i never remember my dreams she says
how i make jokes about mushrooms and rainbows
and nebulizers and contact high farts
in the back seat
while we move through the wet green rises and falls
of the hills that make us
the grief i sit on 
like an egg
and how i practice passing it around
and how it mostly feels horrible
which is why i call it practice

the tufts of white and orange fur
that drift in the air after gibbous (cat) pounces on mama (cat)
for the second time in a week or two
the subject of cannibalism comes up and i say
ya’ll can eat me
as long as i get to eat the cake

the sound of spring peepers rising
everywhere in the dark
that comes at the end
of a day
hazelnutty flavor of the teaccino i brew/steep
in the french press i aqcuired at the quincy salvation army for a dollar

to stack wood

everyone i mention my pottery/ceramics class to joolie says
makes a reference/joke about pattick swayze (and that scene in ‘ghost’)

the silver shine of the locket draped
by a thin chain around mica’s neck
and the silver shine of a small disc hanging,
one from each ear
perhaps there is a word
for how satisfying it is
to stack wood, paying attention to the arrangement and
knowing that it is the source of the heat
that will warm us in teh next year

twenty five cents at a rummage sale  angie says about her trifle bowl/dish
which is clear glass which means
when she serves the trifle,
one can see the layers of poundcake, hand-whipped cream and berries blue and purple and red

something about the scene of the sliding door opening
to the powder-pink morning sky against purpley dark mountains 
that strikes me the same way the glimpse
of a lover might

green greener

emory and i each sucking on a pomegranate chew
(like a starburst but ‘natural’)
while kurt helps us deal with the flat tire on ruthie
by hooking up the air compressor
and letting it rip

gray haze
turning the new growth green greener
against reainwet brownblack leaflitter
the beginning of a woven basket
in kaya’s hands
(kaya still in the dino onesie)
as he turns it and
holds it on his head and explainds
the double basket for fishing
the ever-lingering scent of flax seed oil
the air in the cedar room so thick with it that i
can nearly feel it in my throat
which is a little heavy but is better
than that mold/mildew

only one

the nina simone song
(that involves loving like the wind) darien plays
while he adds legs to a bench and i
trim a pile of black elastic zoids
in what might be the first farm to farm text
joseph reports that he fixed my flapper
which means (fingers crossed) the stove in the cedar room
(that is very much like harry and bessie’s stove at black mesa) is now useable
last summer’s cherry flavor taste
in tonight’s crisp
that dottie serves
for dinner dessert
at three minutes each (or so)
it’s difficult to watch only one episode
of R. Kelly’s hip hopera
and so we crowd around for a few
laughing in the office
from the water world: 

 A local resident wades through water on a street in the “El Indio” settlement on the outskirts of Piura, in northern Peru. – voice of america, day in photos

at the red

the discipline it takes to keep myself
from trimming zoids (it will only be an hour)
on friday, the day of writing
how, from the loft bed perch, i lay and stare
out all the windows:
at an american persimmon and its mottled bark swaying in the wind,
at the red of a cardinal inthe foliage along the chicken yard
at the big drips of rain rolling off the corrugated metal roof edge (which are different than all the little drops in the background which are imperceptible mostly, but create a gray haze),
at all the branches (bare) that will soon be filled in with green
kayah, five years old, in the dinosaur onesie
swinging (by holding robs hand on one side and baigz’s on the other)
at dinner circle