Crickets

 The Dawn loses sleep over the creaking of Tithonus,

although she no longer knows what he chirps about.

He last said he loves her still, before at last

the form of an insect took him over--

Does it matter? It all now sounds like recrimination:

Why? and Why? and Why?

The problem was hers: her nonfatal decision

to prolong his thread in length but not

to preserve his form. She forgot and so,

unevenly yoked, she glowed with aura celestial

as he dwindled to a shrivelled husk. 

And now his ceaseless calling haunts her

both sleepless night and working day.

She sighs and admits another mercy--more for 

herself but perhaps also for he--and turns him loose.

He can not be a god, but he can be free

and serenade another. 

Weird Interactions

 You approach me like an alien

in a movie where it is unclear

if the strangers come in peace,

but communication of some kind

is certainly necessary

to find out--

and I talk to you like

we shared past lives, over and over

together,

and for the life of me

I can't recall a single one,

but it must have been a powerful

soul contract to

have gone on so long,

without a doubt.

Maybe we could 

awkwardly learn

one another's tongues

after patient study,

until we become fluent

and discover a shared language

suprisingly

congruent?

Astray

 Knowing what I want now is knowing

the things I have and do not want,

with a homesickness that makes

it impossible to be home.

I'm longing for a place

that feels like me

that is anywhere else I could

happen to be.

Restless in my exhaustion,

I yearn to find

energy in the idols

I burn

with the glee of an arsonist

on Bonfire Night

where my wrong longing

suddenly seems

right. 

Little Rituals

 The greatest work is made

of many small steps,

like a pyramid or a ladder;

hone knives,

tend fires,

set plates,

carry rods,

lay down your burden at night,

and pick it up again.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Wear out shoe leather

and bend the knee. 

Every thing you act on

will also act on you

with or without intention--

therefore be intentional,

but do not be afraid

to step into the unknown

because you have made a life 

of all the little steps.

Knives, fires, plates, rods.

The tools fit your hand

like you were born with them

and will be reborn with them.

Make of that what you will.

The Snow Maiden

 She asks herself if it was cold--

it was. She was.

She was cold to him,

but was it so wrong?

The frost in the air

from her words 

was all she had

to numb the pain

of her saying them,

and with anything else,

she might melt.

Sometimes it looks like a wave

 Sometimes hope looks like a wave

beginning slowly, far from shore,

but swelling as it comes--

impossible to ignore.

Sometimes it looks like the Tower card,

lighting flashing and 

falsehood crashing.

Sometimes it looks like the only way

for hands that work

and feet that pray.

Sometimes it starts with dissatisfaction

that turns into a tide

of powerful action. 

Sometimes hope is what must carry you--

but it will take more

to see things through. 

That change will start

with a wave.

Seeing the Rabbit

 The instinct is in there,

still,

like muscle memory,

no tension,

just moving like

an arrow in flight.

A flick of a switch,

and I'm in gear,

chasing the movement

of something I did not need

to be taught 

to run after;

just as simple as a greyhound

responding to something

in my blood. 

You smile,

and I have seen

the rabbit.

I need to stretch my legs.