Kristin Jennifer: April 2017

my power is in my words
words chosen by me
strong and bold
because I own
my awareness
my art swings around my body
like a spiral of wind
flinging all unnecessary
distractions aside
a whirlwind
that protects and insulates
spinning me to the places
I need to go
out the door
down the street
and out of sight

there it was
alone in the wild
all lost and raggedy
so she took it home
and found something for it
when she turned around
it blended in with its surroundings so well
that she didn't really notice it anymore
but one day the wind came
and blew it away
she was glad she had it memorized

She wanders into transparent pastel meadows
filled with wildflowers
and the auras of a guiding moon. 

she walks the rose petal path

she sleeps on steadfast silver clouds

she eats rainbow soup and sunshine crackers

she feels sparkles of opportunity all around her

with transcendent brushes
she paints the iridescent memories of her ancestors

so I got out my scissors
and cut it all up
all the ties binding me to things
I shook free
and spread out
hesitant to think
the freshness here now
I will defend my territory
for the time being

I want to go home
but I don't know where that is
I walk from room to room
calling your name
and the silence that follows
like a place card
facing an empty chair
is the certainty I need
to move on

kind eyes
to see you in your light
to see you whole
the way a human is beheld
by the ages, in the molecules
of sweet incomparability

come out, come out, where ever you are
the flowers whispered to her

this is silence
this is empty
this is dust settling
the aftermath
the end
the precious stillness
potent with its incipient power
I am ok with it
and after this intentional pause
I will smile

it showed in her eyes I think
the light shifting around inside
but it would not be until later
when the answer would come

when I catch the wind
I'll sway a bit
then fall
and when the next breeze swirls in
away I will go

I told my mom that spring had not come yet.
See, the trees are still bare.
You will not lie here looking out your window
at the blossoming branches.
You will not be deprived of the warm sunshine and green grass.
She looked at me with sympathy.
She was unable to speak.
She did not miss the spring but, as delicate beauty holds inside it
the fierce indifference
of forward movement,
the spring missed her.
And so do I.