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too many winters

 

Like a budding spring tree,

I can feel the change coming.

I can sense the

creativity

opening up in me –

slowly, but with purpose

and determination.

But I …

I have seen too many winters.

I have felt the chill

and shivered in it’s embrace.

I have crawled back

into bed

on mornings when

the best I had to offer

was a tested skill

of wrapping myself in

my blankets –

tight –

like a little human

burrito.

And these cold

cold

mornings have left their

print on me,

and seared my body

with an undying

kiss of

frozen-ness.

So I run from life

at the first sign of

winter

and I hide from it all,

afraid my sweatshirts

won’t be warm enough to

protect me

from the elements.

And when the tiny

beautiful voice of spring

rises in my heart

and whispers to me that

I too

can be free

and healthy

and alive

and powerful

I run to my closet

once again

and bury my creative

self

in a pile of sweaters

and blankets and

scarves.

For I must keep her warm –

this muse –

and safely protected.

For I have seen

too many winters,

and I know of the

barrenness of the trees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

just me

 

Today it is me here

lying on my porch

face to the sky as I

listen

to the wind

sweeping through my

neighborhood

and nudging the trees,

encouraging them to

talk to me

once again.

Today it is me here

sharing space with

the world

as I study my trees

which have already begun

to change

into colors so vivid

my crayon box cannot

replicate them.

Today it is me here,

and I’m not vying for

this body

and it is only me for now

and this precious moment

is unique because

of the singularity

of voices

I hear inside.

Today it is me here

and I revel in this day

to myself

in the quietness of

the hour

and the stillness

of my usually

too chatty

soul.