The Panic of Birds by Olena K. Davis

My yellow Moonflower in the rain.

THE PANIC OF BIRDS
By Olena Kalytiak Davis

The moon is sick
of pulling at the river, and the river
fed up with swallowing the rain,
So, in my lukewarm coffee, in the bathroom
mirror, there's a restlessness
as black as a raven.

Landing heavily on the quiet lines of this house.
Again, the sun takes cover
and the morning is dead
tired of itself, already, it's pelting and windy
as I lean into the pane
that proves this world is a cold smooth place.

Wind against window---let the words fight it out---
as I try to remember: What is it
that's so late in coming? What was it
I understood so well last night, so well it kissed me,
sweetly on the forehead?

Wind against window and my late flowering brain,
heavy, gone to seed. Pacing
from room to room and in each window
a different version of a framed woman
unable to rest, set against a sky
full of beating wings and abandoned
directions. Her five chambered heart
filling with the panic of birds, asking: What?

What if not this?

+++++++++++++++

A perfect poem, this, to go with a hurricane.  So far, we've only had some wind, dark clouds and no rain.  But the Hummingbirds are here in droves.  I've had to refill my 3 feeders every single day for a week.  I guess they're escaping the storms down South.  I'll feed them all.

The wind is awesome, just amazing.  I wish I could bottle it.  I've taken down all my windchimes and moved my plants in.  Come on Isaac.  Bring it on.  I'm ready now.

xo,
Marion

================

"No one but Night, with tears on her dark face,
Watches beside me in this windy place."   ~Edna St. Vincent Millay

=============

The wind shows us how close to the edge we are. ~Joan Didion
================

Please Stay Tuned...

I'm having technical difficulties with my blog.  It won't let me edit and I can endure anything but misspelling and bad grammar.  When I hit "post", it adds or subtracts spaces and returns at random.  OY!  So here's a picture of some of my Blythe dolls to persuse while I curse Blogger.  :-)

Willow, Annie-Marie, P.J., Violet, Molly and Li-Li.

+++++

"The reluctance to put away childish things may be a requirement of genius. "~Rebecca Pepper Sinkler

For Death by John O'Donohue

August storm brewing in the swamps

For Death

By John O'Donohue

From the moment you were born,
your death has walked beside you.
Though it seldom shows its face,
you still feel its empty touch
when fear invades your life,
or what you love is lost
or inner damage is incurred...

Yet when destiny draws you
into these spaces of poverty,
and your heart stays generous
until some door opens into the light,
you are quietly befriending your death;
so that you will have no need to fear
when your time comes to turn and leave,

that the silent presence of your death
would call your life to attention,
wake you up to how scarce your time is
and to the urgency to become free
and equal to the call of your destiny.

That you would gather yourself
and decide carefully
how you now can live
the life you would love
to look back on
from your deathbed.

__________________

August in Louisiana burns everything up, rain or no rain. The flowers and gardens wither, the butterflies leave and the hummingbirds come by the dozens.  Dragonflies loiter carelessly on the edge of hot bird baths.  The crickets hum a slow, back-to-school song and the frogs sing along, predicting rain. 

And oh, the clouds, the afternoon storms and the knowledge that autumn is around the corner.  How I long for the dying of autumn and the death of winter!   August is about waiting for September.  It will come.  It always does. 

xo,

Marion

"All say, "How hard it is that we have to die" - a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live." ~Mark Twain

------------------

"When you cease to fear your solitude, a new creativity awakens in you. Your forgotten or neglected wealth begins to reveal itself. You come home to yourself and learn to rest within. Thoughts are our inner senses. Infused with silence and solitude, they bring out the mystery of inner landscape."  - Anam Cara, by John O'Donohue, p. 17