Searching for Crocuses

We all are ready for flowers.  There comes the time when only blossoms help us shine.  Robins are here too, waiting.  The geese have consumed the grass.  They are waiting.  This is why Spring must not disappoint us and slide directly into summer.  We need the pause when flowers grow.

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Speaking Truth

It is important to speak truth.  It is also important to tred softly when doing so.  I am one of those who sometimes can’t soften my tred.  It does not help my cause.  I can’t imagine a world where we are so cautious about what we say that we never say anything that addresses how we feel or think.  Even in my old age I find this so.

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pain is memory and future

I wear the pain as a dress which some tell me makes me look fine.  I wear the pain of past pieces sewn into a dress which the future will see. Will, perhaps, admire me.  The colors will dazzle. Life is a seamstress, patching and refitting to suit the look of the experience.


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End of Year Carol

The greenest green
against white hills
presses cold into my unseen painting
of a world robbed of summer
for winter’s sharp touch.

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Music and Winter

We are seduced by the strings and woodwinds of outrageous holidays.Some times I fight it, but sometimes I just give in to the wraparound of comfort from the bareness of Life.  I can no longer sing sweetly, but I find the soaring voices of others do it on my behalf whether they know it or not. When the glittery soprano of the icicles catch light and joy from the sun’s meagre offering my heart knows I am not ready to give up on the life.




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The Ambiguity of the Season

Fake smiles and stories with happy endings that don’t match what I read each day in the news.  We feel life should promise us more than a gift card and a onetime great meal.  We feel the music should uplift us longer than it lasts.  So where are the real singing angels and the rest?  My stocking has a hole in it.  Did the glitter fall through?

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Dreams are the Such of Writers

I keep dreaming about Invisible Joan.  I can’t see her completely because she is part of the shadows. She turns up in my dreams here and there.  I feel soon I will write her story:

Joan as a child heard her mother say:” No one wants to look at a girl so ugly.”  Joan grew up hiding away from people, fearing what she might hear them remark about it.  She hid out in a hole in the wall of an abandoned building.  Her goal was to be helpful to others, yet never acknowledged.

My writer’s quest is to liberate the good heart of Joan so others will take her from the shadows.

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