a bird in the hand

A bird lies dead on the pavement. It seems all wings, a hint of head. Wings that are spread wide but with no flight in them; they rest on asphalt not on air. Those lightweight honeycomb bones to no advantage now on the ground. Perhaps the wind, a sharp breeze, may lift the little body a last time.


Earlier I held a blue titmouse in my hand; I opened the window, slid my arm out and opened my hand. It stood there a little time, then flew to the big apple tree.

gently observing age

touch : touch not

I reach out to touch, fingers slip into light.

Yet it is not my fingers not my flesh fingers.

Because how could I reach out with them to touch something that is not touchable?

My chest aches, quivers.

Am I sad? Am I happy?

Prickly eyes.

gentle

gentle

gentle

so deeply tender

safe

is there nowhere safe to cry?

and the anger....he asked me in several times if there were words to my anger, took me to moments, but there were none; not a word in sight.

he doesn't want me to be stuck in resignation he wants me to find the clearer anger, that is if I can't move forward with plan b/c/d....p/q/r....x/y/z; because my body is showing it and it hurts.

Why do some of us take SO long to learn? it's probably all here, here in blogger, all those lessons learnt, unlearnt, confessed, revealed to the world. Does it help to make it "public"? We are, after all, all in this together....

I don't need to delve into the stories/experiences of my past just deal with the emotions NOW.

Stiff upper lip? the smiling mask so that no one knows? But not if it knots up inside.