impressionist

toes curled in the sand,
in the snow,
the ache of undermedicated anxiety,
deep in my bones.
Depression lurks, breathing heavily at times,
at rest and licking its wounds,
more or less always.

Ankles that ache, and knees that cringe and a hip that more or less walks in unannounced.  Often at three in the morning.

Hello anybody home?
I was wondering if I could pick some of your flowers for the altar?

Gut oh my gut
one scrimmage after another.
Do you like cheese? why yes, yes I do.
oh well guess what?  Not today you don’t
do you like yogurt? I try to eat it every day.
well guess what I have in store for you?

strong shoulders, used to carrying a great weight, neck pushed forward.

Strong hands, capable hands and arms ready to hug.

Head, dizzy sometimes, crystal clear sometimes, muddied by the weather sometimes.
Heart beats a little too fast, a little too hard.

And then there is the hearth.  Think with reddened coals, cozy with pillows and richly embroidered tapestry, warm bed down and wool, embedded in this place.

More or less empty, but welcome to guests, on occasions.
As long as they see that this is my place.

The light from the windows casts a shadow of exquisite beauty,

who knows what all hides in the corners.

 

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