a ritual to start the work week
The fading novemberage of fall sizzles
above our chortling and blurts,
the cracklance of new bonds
forming over shared lines and aging
gibberish. The peel of a summer
bun slips past our peripherals
to cozy up within its warren,
all hunker-down and nuzzle-up. We hang
our ghoulingses back in our attics,
safe amongst the cobwebbing
and scritchery of what-mightn't be
and who-could've-been.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Green grown gold gleams
expectant umber, awake under
cloudless powder canvas,
splotched ruby, ruddy thicket
creeping up to meet it, to sleep
still and chill and frosty white.
But for now, gold leaf
clings and coats, glimmering
as it flakes and falls, awaits
breaking, gust and snap,
and giving its gentle gifts
glorious back to the ground.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Wind catches under the chin
and the skin stretched over scapula
prickles awake with the tickle and float
of milkweed seeds twisting from
crusted envelope and taking flight.
Rip me from my wrappings, my loves,
and fill me with sky. Send me up
to feel air stream cross my belly
and toss my aching heart to flutter
and waft, breeze-ruffled and bound
for fertile earth, perchance,
a planting by happenstance.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Silver strings stretch trunk to trunk, make
nothing into something, make a hole
into a home: spoke and crossbar, skitter
and turn, spin and trap, again again.
Inch by inch, the spiral grows deeper
still: helix made haven out of innards,
out of self, given and given, become
and become, comfort arriving, again again.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
dive, starbound, gyre-ward: become
firelight diffusion, continuously:
everything is coming
together: we fill ourselves
with mouthfuls of seeing and know
undertow from murmuration: sift
baleen the completion: the descent
into ink, permanent in change
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Knapsacks packed with maps and snacks—
acorns thump, small drums
marking forest's time.
Feathers focus us—
quills catching the morning breeze,
etching and soaring.
Tea steams with wishes—
shells holding the churning sea
spill and fill again.
Brick stack and checkbook,
tick and mark and turn—
crystals pressed into our palms.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Petals painted and printed,
carefully stitched and etched
into canvas and on glass, skin
and muscle. Our bone
broken by their daintiness,
made more delicate and remade
resilient. Scarred by softness,
we shift in the evening
breeze, walk easier remembering
the tulips and tiny lilies
that adorn us, knowing now
how to toast our bleeding
hearts.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
A clay pot hardening in extreme
heat; a hawk hanging half-circle
ahead of the dive; a finished draft
not quite sent: change stays quiet
for a while, even as it churns.
Listen for the hush of it, my loves,
notice the peace of the unknown
in the moments the kiln cools
and remains closed, when the work is
neither whole nor shattered. Focus
on the breath crowding your lungs
before the first note is sung.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
And so you continue, unquestionably,
undeniable as sunrise, irrepressible
as moonglow bounding off the sea.
Within hours, the planets picked
up by your pull multiply, drawn to orbit
your perfect pudge, dewy morning,
curious eyes. A whole solar
system of adoration springs up
in mere moments, spreading outward
tidal wave and sonic boom, a trillion
hearts changing shape
at once, bending
toward your beginning,
altering their course to your bidding. This time,
the match lights, the flame burns
pink-white soft and so hot, blazes
inescapable in our gaze and changes
us forever.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Gutters gush uncaring of their
insufficience, unaware of what
they drop, proud
to direct what they can. Spillage
drains down bricks, dumps
and drips, splatters asphalt
wreckage, failures of
bent systems built for nowhere
near this spewage. But the gutters
go on unafraid, clinging
to the eaves, accepting what
they can hold, letting the rest
overflow.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
It happens anyway. All of it —
the skyward creep of grass; the bustle
of birdsong; the slow arabesque
of sunrise; growth; hunger. The bloom
begs to be plucked, the cup sipped,
the candle lit. Why not pause
for a bit? Sit a spell — smell what arose
right in front of you, right now,
however gentle or sharp. Why not
hold the knife without cutting?
Watch it glint. Why not squint
into the sun and hold its gaze?
Savor it — bubbly, brisk
and bittersweet; copper and flame
sweating on ice, leaving rings
to seep and stain; easing the grip
on going, on doing, on done.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
