Wake to a day bright with sun, 

to sounds of engines, mowers 

a great whirring of humanity. 

My head pounds as I drive in a rush 

of 9am trucks, vans, buses, cars 

on the highway.

 

Day swiftly spent, a blur of noise, 

light, aching— until relief comes 

with the cooling waters of a shower, 

my hair unspooling, dripping in wavy ringlets, 

sending droplets across the tile, my muscles relax, 

a heavy weight of tension— of sorrow, 

of regret, of worry, of hollowness

lifting as I begin anew.

 

Fresh with something spinning, softer comes 

evening, soon stretching into a space 

where I can sit and write. 

A space of silence, of softness, of wondering 

what kind of beauty, what art, 

could still be made or found.

 

What is it 

about a spring day, of sun 

and blossoms and green  

that brings a quiet hush 

and a dizzy rush 

at the same time?

 

It beckons with promise 

with something 

bittersweet, something 

that could break my heart.

 

And yet, maybe 

it could be mended 

too, made gold 

and glistening 

at the broken places, made fresh 

and new by cool waters, made whole 

by the small moments, by making 

the choice to rise and try again.

 

These are my Pollyanna thoughts, 

tomorrow, or maybe 

the next hour – is fresh 

with no mistakes in it.

 

And if I could find 

a prism, put it up 

to the light, if I could 

fashion rainbows, little bits 

of happiness in my window, 

which is my heart, which looks 

out to a wide blue canvas of sky, 

what could I write upon it?

 

My heart, my heart, I could write, 

I could paint, I could sing, I could 

find, I could mend 

my heart, my heart. 

‏‏‎ ‎ 

A month begins, lazy and gray with clouds 

hanging in slow blankets across the sky.

 

At dusk the sun peeks, late light in pale stretches. A whistle 

blows, echoing across the loll of swaying branches.

 

The call of a crow rings out, the chirp of a songbird hidden in trees. 

Spring’s siren soft then loud, a rush of sound, light, breeze.

 

I dip my brush into water, swoosh bright canary, tangerine, lime, petal pink 

across the page, I press softness in, capture something without words.

 

Swooping, zigging, zagging, dotting a design. Abstract as my self feels, 

I let the colors flow, create without a sense of where it goes, why it matters.

 

I think of tenderness, of soft moments — of snapshot colors, like the train — 

Images, places, earth, time passing in a rush of palm fronds.

 

They make a kind of music in the wind, accented by the cawing crow, 

the sharp whir of motors, the high ting-ting of wind-chimes.

 

All these a song of dusk, of a Tuesday, 

of an evening in April, a siren song of spring. 

‏‏‎ ‎