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And Words Are All I Have
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Avoidance elevated to an art form...
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If I am sleeping too much, baking too much, or marathoning the Rockford Files, it invariably means:
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- I am avoiding writing with everything I can muster.
- I am avoiding writing something that is too painful, difficult, or just out of reach.
- A combo of the above.
This is a poem that came out of that awareness.
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The deeper I bury what I need to say
the loftier my cakes become.
The icing atop them getting sweeter, thicker,
the longer I wait to excavate.
When my freezer is filled with
homemade cookies
my words in turn remain unrecorded,
a direct correlation traceable
in a thick dusting of powdered sugar.
My rhubarb cobbler oozes yet more succulent fruit
with every feeling that goes unheeded.
And those legendary toffee bars overflowing with caramel?
No end to the secrets
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Just the slightest droop in the leaf of the phlox. Its tender blossom holding up, but not for long. A sudden chill reduces the dahlias petal by petal to ragged pink flags. And there, see, the delicate African daisies suddenly resigned, curling sleepily into themselves, exhausted debutantes after the ball, when yesterday they held the ballroom captive. The valiant cosmos, …
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The Sadness of Her Sewing
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There she remains, In the folds of her nightgown Tucked deeply in her bedside drawer, Releasing the scent of her Chantilly. And here, in her treasured clip-on earrings Of aurora borealis rhinestones, All the colors of the northern lights, She explained. And perhaps most, Up there on the closet shelf, Her well-worn sewing basket, A frayed tapestry on its lid of …
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