Hellebores, Rabbits and Death

Something proffered in a spring bird chorus before light – memory in a sound – fulfilled hope – a chance to start again.

Flecks of paint rising from wooden windows. On which side of the glass is the hungry wolf?

A turkey rubbernecks through the back yard. Eventually, the dog sees him and I hold her back for his safe passage. Maybe the difficulty is something like that.

Lately, a fascination with hellebores. Black blooms, if you please. So what then, just don't admit death and all is well?

Misty rain slicks the deck at dawn and as light opens, pine trees reflect in the pools. Do we still move in one another or is that another illusion? I remember falling instantly in love when you mentioned the sound of winds in a pine forest.

Painful imprints behind my ears where my glasses are too tight. Someone could fix that.

I watch a rabbit eat my plants and a part of me wants it to move along but the braver part allows it to feed unto its heart's content. “My” plants?

After many hours steadying friends, I rest in the calling. It was if I made the decision upon another's insight until a wound healed. Then suddenly, checking under the band aid, there is no wound, only new skin, which is really formed of the old skin, which is really just a reminder that there is no wrong choice. The most beautiful teacher I know taught me that.

you
the love letter
I always read
because you
the love letter
I always am