Narcissus and I Go Way Back

What is it like –
years of trying to erase
what is neither here
nor there

This is what writing has been. The question is, what is writing now?

Regardless of voices which come and go, certain melodies always remain. I have never dwelt in a place which did not have birdsong. Deep, Michigan, winters come close to abject silence but after storms, hardy bluejays spar with one another in evergreens and cardinals alight near my window in remembrance of the fires of love.

Before recently, I understood who I was as woman and writer only through images or reflections. Narcissus and I go way back.

I thought he was looking at me, but he wasn't.
I thought I saw myself in his pooling blues, but I didn't.

The myth tells you that Narcissus died of starvation and thirst because he couldn't look away. However, the truth is that he got everything he needed and walked away fat and happy.

The daffodils rise in spring before any other. Their sunny disposition brings hope and color to a lifeless world. Yet, they do not last, fading before the arrival of primrose and tulip.

This is why I sow and tend.
I am not a woman or a writer.
I am a gardener.
Move towards the better light.
I will bring the water.
I will sing with the birds the song of earth and sky.