Ten to Twelve Inches; About 1/4" (Hair, Snow)
Tonight, on my last night of having what I have,
of being this particular me,
I get philosophical.
This is a season of change, of intentional loss and
of finally leaving.
I want mine.
Last week I thought I was ready, I
drove through traffic and anxious Easter snow to the unexpected
waterfall and bowl of orchids
in the lobby of the office building,
but it was not yet my time.
The unexpected dramas of spring, the
I've-had-its, the Never-agains,
Sloughing off the ashen skin of
the longest winter ever, knowing as you know every year
that in eight months it will be back
And you will hide behind your hair again,
and grow fat and dry as firewood in your nest
of papers and scarves.
But (for now at least), you look to air
where there has been only stillness for years
And movement, other than shrugging, in
this new cold water.
Kate sent me a link to her live journal and I was really touched by her writing. To read more... hemOphilia.livejournal.com
I want to do a painting about the piece titled Blackstar, Chapter I