There’s a pool of light in the backyard
It spills over the tree tops
but appears to be carved out of the grass
an oval grotto of white,
silver amongst the shadows
If it weren’t for insomnia
I wouldn’t have seen it,
Wouldn’t have seen the cool, clear light
bright amidst the dark
Being awake at this hour seems unnatural,
is unnatural
in terms of the real world
But in the magic of these moonbeams
I am wide open
An island of green encrusted in jewels
illuminated by the light of oncoming traffic
globes of dandelion fluff sparkling
in the beams undercutting the night mist
a field of glittering diamonds
nothing but a mess of a nuisance by day
The ghost of winter,
a puff of breath
whisking swirls of snow
off the branches and into the air
suspended
a last gasp of cold crystals
the pine boughs flash frozen for a moment
and then it’s gone,
green grass poking through the raised mounds of snow
pushed upwards
by the fledgling growth of spring
a delicate dance
threatening
but gone in the blink of an eye
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Why do we not let ourselves be held?
Are we afraid of the fallout?
Of the softening
that occurs with the slightest
of pressure on the hard outer shell
Cracking the protection
we have absurdly built up
Thinking we can fool
the shadows that lurk
just out of sight
A touch, a push, a gentle squeeze
and it all comes rushing to the surface
Releasing the tension
that does nothing but tie us up
The earth is still brown, the ground dull and bleak.
Leaves of brittle rust, crumpled and curled in upon themselves.
Evergreen needles even a muted hue.
But the air is different.
A hawk cries out as it soars above the seemingly dormant trees.
The deer move, the squirrels feed.
The snow looks sad in its blankets now softened around the edges.
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Piles of sand seal the seams of the roads.
Nature’s energy vibrates just below the surface.
All of creation holds its breath.
Breathe deep and release it.
I chase down cures in my dreams,
seeking the open office door,
the present practicioner,
but they’re never there, never open.
Test after trial, trial after tribulation
No solution in sight.
Tablet, pill, capsule.
Needle, scale, survey.
No magic bullet.
There are symptoms, there are diagnoses,
but no cure.
No point of origin to return to and restart.
I want someone to fill this hollow inside –
but the only cure is in there as well.
It lies at the core of me,
but I am so very tired . . .
and cannot wake from this nightmare.
Drops of rain accumulate on the windshield
A beautiful bubbled constellation
Slowly covering the world in a mist
Obscuring even the fog outside
Yet letting in the light
A shimmering shield
The refreshing whoosh of air overhead.
How satisfying to see a path carved into ice
by a tiny stream of water
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A tunnel with curved sides,
etched in glass
so solid, yet ephemeral
A rivulet running through the sandy shoal of a street
Sheets cascading around and about our feet
Miniature ice floes to our giant selves
Undermined and fragile at the edges
if dense and sturdy at the center
A pair of disapproving elderly librarians
judging my three-time renewal of books
But I got special permission from the head librarian
A fleece-clad stranger cuddled in,
stealing blankets and real estate
But she’s asleep, so we’re asleep
The intermittent voices of a tin-can radio man
interrupted by the ever-increasing beeps of the alarm clock
Up and at the absurd
In the parking lot of a Burger King on the Canadian border
On the bluestone terrace of a bed and breakfast in Vermont
By the cobwebbed window of a general store in the Redwoods
A quiet side street, a rushing river, an elegant table for two:
These are the places I go without going anywhere.
The places I’ve been in past lives,
The places I’d go if unencumbered
by lack of freedom and finances,
responsibility and restrictive routines.
But one blip on the timeline,
they come back to me
as I once went to them.
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