210508 poem

may 8

where did my spirits go those three days

when the rain closed in and shrouded grey the vermont hills the green mountains

bereft of certainty I was cold and though the wind blew soft it did not soothe

the sun is shining now

tree swallows newly arrived trapeze maniacally over the meadow

one lands on the bluebird's house 

april's claimant the bluebird chases it off

with fragile surety i accomplish some tasks, further a project without thoughts of future or past

art as process

go on

go on through the morning 

not in a sleepwalk of the bereft but in the actions of a living thing 

vigilant as a beating-heart bird - as breathless

i stand tenuous on a brink 

then to step where the second has not sounded the clock ticks one and one and one

short breath stop thinking and you will not fall

leave them alone and they will come home

Mumma Yaga