Cold rain falling on New York City
This little light
Set ablaze on New Years Eve
Still burning bright
Narcissus beginning again
Dreamer Dreaming Dreams
by Ms.
Yes, I was dreaming telling some
newbies the lay of the land--they
from the future, me from the past
which changes, and yet lasts--
lasts inside those who lived then,
and I was glad to tell what I knew.
When I woke to sounds familiar:
kids in the school yard, them now
claiming place and person-hood,
so demanding their discourse, I
rose up to lean upon the sill and
listened to the details for a while.
That's when, with fading visions, the past pierced me briefly and made me sad. I might have stayed so, but tenderly embraced the day bit by bit - brewing coffee, drawing a tub - the same bathtub, with worn out enamel having exposed it's iron core. It was made in the thirties, in factories where non-union labor toiled, before my time, before this building was built, before my parents married, before the war.
In those scant twenty minutes I slid from memory to memory, dream to dream, feeling my way as the blind might--my mind seeing-cane tap-tapping, 'till finally, I looked up at the wall clock, then a current calendar, and my own face in the mirror--one of many faces recalled for this moment of realization. We all lived and some still live on, iron at the core.
The red geranium, a rescue, sits erect in a front-facing window with a promise of flowers. Mint flows over the edges of a rescued green pot and the street abandoned 'money-tree' waves delicate leaves in a scented breeze. We rescues rejoice and deep breathe together. A Summer sparrow chirps, cars pass below, the whir of all those air conditioners keep pace with a season slipping from Spring through April rains to Summer, and onward to Fall where all ripens and dies layer by layer, dissolving into compost against Winter's frost. From life to death and life again, and I'm wondering what those newbies know of this, what those kids imagine their lives to be as they run in connecting circles, vying for space, for dominance in games that seem oh so innocent.
A scrap of paper at the top of the pile by my side catches my eye: The quote written there is not attributed - "Mountain wind rises to shake the trees. They wave and twist and shiver too, each leaf gives voice to invisible forces on cassette from North where the end of days waits for all sentient beings to bless."
Another day, another week, another year begins and continues here on this new blog.
~*~
Post Script
The old blog LINK for reference
http://mscomfortzone.blogspot.com/2017/01/stepping-from-2016-into-2017.html
lasts inside those who lived then,
and I was glad to tell what I knew.
When I woke to sounds familiar:
kids in the school yard, them now
claiming place and person-hood,
so demanding their discourse, I
rose up to lean upon the sill and
listened to the details for a while.
That's when, with fading visions, the past pierced me briefly and made me sad. I might have stayed so, but tenderly embraced the day bit by bit - brewing coffee, drawing a tub - the same bathtub, with worn out enamel having exposed it's iron core. It was made in the thirties, in factories where non-union labor toiled, before my time, before this building was built, before my parents married, before the war.
In those scant twenty minutes I slid from memory to memory, dream to dream, feeling my way as the blind might--my mind seeing-cane tap-tapping, 'till finally, I looked up at the wall clock, then a current calendar, and my own face in the mirror--one of many faces recalled for this moment of realization. We all lived and some still live on, iron at the core.
The red geranium, a rescue, sits erect in a front-facing window with a promise of flowers. Mint flows over the edges of a rescued green pot and the street abandoned 'money-tree' waves delicate leaves in a scented breeze. We rescues rejoice and deep breathe together. A Summer sparrow chirps, cars pass below, the whir of all those air conditioners keep pace with a season slipping from Spring through April rains to Summer, and onward to Fall where all ripens and dies layer by layer, dissolving into compost against Winter's frost. From life to death and life again, and I'm wondering what those newbies know of this, what those kids imagine their lives to be as they run in connecting circles, vying for space, for dominance in games that seem oh so innocent.
A scrap of paper at the top of the pile by my side catches my eye: The quote written there is not attributed - "Mountain wind rises to shake the trees. They wave and twist and shiver too, each leaf gives voice to invisible forces on cassette from North where the end of days waits for all sentient beings to bless."
Another day, another week, another year begins and continues here on this new blog.
~*~
Post Script
The old blog LINK for reference
http://mscomfortzone.blogspot.com/2017/01/stepping-from-2016-into-2017.html
6 comments:
Dear Friendlies--kindly follow again - I don't know how to transfer previous followers to Ms Uncertainty Principles. Thank you for continuing to be here. You are the wind beneath my wings :-->
i'm Here
a new space for the new year!
And here I am too!
I went out looking and ... I found you! Yay!
a fresh start. Happy new Year!
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