The night isn’t yet endless or unwritten, nor the ground solid enough for me to rise, free from harm and clad in a simple cloak. I have the earned beauty of the ancient, I need no tending, only an audience. One weak or sickly child will do, she with fingers delicate enough not to bruise the petals of my crown, who lives close enough to dying, not to fear my own, who might delight in the transparence of my skin, my grand ballroom of dancing ancestors. She might believe, as I do, that everything lives inside me, catacombs set up with card tables and bowls of allsorts, steam plumed train stations, an overturned canoe, my loves, the crowding of my most cherished days, so that it would seem I could not contain a single other memory or regret, and still I wait by the window for her to arrive.
I'm a poet, writer, collage artist, & teacher living along the river in West County, doing my thing. This is a blog for my sixth round (and earlier rounds) of NaPoWriMo, with brand new, unedited poems & images daily, or as close to that as I can muster.. Leave a comment or two (but be gentle. These babies are newborn.)