The dark falls while I’m still in the office,
Sudden as a ceiling on my head.

Now the first frost drops in daylight.

It pisses me off,
Even as I scrape it all off,
To let my cold-crusted car crack open like a chill-air jar,
Ready to embalm me.

And then I judder jolt home,
In the salt-spray splatter,
Of grey roads rolling out of oblivion,
The way back from the dead, with bumps.

I hide a smile in the knot of my scarf,
Let myself laugh at my temper-tamping rage at the winter,
That was always coming, and always would.
Futility is best digested with a warm drink,
Perhaps coco.

Here, I am learning to live blind-black,
Navigating sadness dexterous as a bat,
I hang tight and keep hold.

This is not what I wanted,
Not what I sought,
But I guess I’ll build up stamina.
See moping as a sport.

I believe I can do well,
Even upside down, cold in a cave.
That, is what you call faith.

And I die a little daily,
But we all do.
So I get up, and go to work.
I sing to the radio as it crackles,
Out of tune with the thrum-rum-hum of the broken road,
Until the lyrics are all for me.
A delight of dedications,
Words tugging my hard-hurt out,
Loose to fog free in the air.

At least in frost-fall everything sparkles,
Not just vampires,
In poor fiction.

I am a reader,
And the moon leaves messages,
Star scribblings in ice,
Mysteries marked in the tint of tarmac.
The sky always has something to say,
Even when I don’t see it.
The rocks cry out,
If I listen.

I am a writer.

I still write to you,
Though you let me down,
Without a rope.

You never read me.

I believed in you before breakfast,
And there is habit in history,
Or herstory, or whoever else hears it.
Or wants it,
But the words are still mine.

I’m finding my fury,
Throwing thoughts round in my head,
Storm tempest tissue-tossed,
Rumpled but resolute.
I pay it out in pillows I sleep-put across my bed,
Sharp fonted letters I’ll never write in bold,
The angry words I have no wish to let myself be.

This is mine.
And I would stand and sing as the ship sunk,
Know the oceans ominous, awful, glorious,

But I am afloat,
And travelling.

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3 Responses to mine…

  1. Kathy says:

    Wow. Love it. I can relate to a lot of what you wrote. I laughed at your description of winter. I love the beauty of snow blanketing everything. But I hate scraping it off my car, driveway, walks and steps. Of course I always manage to get snow inside my sock. Ah winter. I know you wrote of more than that and I wish you peace.

  2. catnipkiss says:

    Love it! Are you feeling a little more lost after all that time traveling? I know I am. Reality sometimes sucks…. dreaming of my next trip! – Alexa Maxwell

  3. Peace in the New Year, dear Rising. Yes, you are a writer, btw. One who flings words (seemingly without effort) into the world to be caught by those of us who cherish them.

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