spring song

sing a song to shadow
(sing to it of light)
for Spring may come tomorrow
(and with it, all things right).

sing of sun-soaked meadow,
hum of bee's first flight:
trilling comes the sparrow
and crickets sound the night.

sing for barefoot wand'rings
'midst slant of golden sun
where dandelion tumblings
dance of things to come.

sing in scales of new rain:
light mist and lion's storm--
forget the cold of Winter's pain
and hail Spring's bright reform.

sing a song to shadow
(sing to it of light)
for Spring may come tomorrow
(and with it, all things right).

* * * * *

Remembered & Revised. Waiting on that Formulaic Happenstance, Aaron---and not just the hemorrhage of words and second sorrows. All of it. That's the rule.

too late to title

it's a boy!

Who knew The Garden had a personal pronoun?

Found in-between waka and waka tārere in the Oxford Encyclopedia of New Zealand in the DU stacks of the Social Sciences section of the Harold B. Lee Library in Provo, Utah at approximately 3:13 pm on this twenty-seventh of February 2007, causing its discoverer to stifle a laugh. Perhaps a note from God, a subtle reminder to call home?

glorious morning

Given that outside my world is a wall of white I'm going to assume that the above was my "glorious morning" promised and that this blizzard doesn't count. This morning, though, the new-lit dawn and playful winds---that was glorious. The warm air, the brisk walk to class, the heady moisture clinging to the dry air.

The canvas, newly gessoed, that waits patiently on my easel. The titanium white acrylic that rests on its side, shiny and plump in its newness. Knowing that all I have to do is make the decision to paint.

The soy milk in my fridge, the cranberries in my cupboard. A perfect breakfast. My bed not made, sheepskin tossed to the floor amidst pillows and books. Poetry journal open at my feet.

My fiftieth post, words running into each other in drunken stupor, typos abound. Praises for proofreading and the automatic spell check. I put e's in everything.

Pull the blinds, no need to remember the storm outside, a room of comforting darkness, the thermostat back up to 71. She's pushing it, and she knows it. I twist it back to 55.

Curl into the orange arabesque of my comforter, curl into the pillows along the wall.

Yes. Glorious indeed.

this receipt entitles the customer to:

We walked all the way across the street and bought a steak to share. What we didn't bargain for was the promise for tomorrow---and at only $2.49, for that matter. Oh, the possibilities!

a Dibble and a doodle and a piece of a poem

Another extremely productive day in physics.

* * * * *

You walk tall
But speak short,
Watch closely
But see far.

Part of me wants to wonder
that dangerous "what if"
But your half smile reminds me
there is
nothing
between us but
the awkward and insane
So I watch you walk away now,
Never to learn my name.

* * * * *

Also, I want steak. For dinner. But that would mean walking to Legends. And I don't think that's actually going to happen.

so this is what it's like

I set out for Happy Valley just past eight, slipping a CD of Samuel Barber's violin concertos into the player before hitting the freeway. Normal enough.

But here's the thing: the music matched my every movement, every situation exactly. As the road's occupants fluctuated throughout the drive, so did the orchestra, running from a quiet string solo to the busy hum of a full orchestra as cars merged and left. I summited the point of the mountain in triumphant fanfare, trumpets and horns heralding the sweep of winter sun illuminating the valley below me, my own personal Fantasia. At the very crest of the hill the music took a sudden turn, ringing out in surreal first violin, a soft slide that mimicked my suddenly effortless drive downhill.

My first thoughts were of Lord of the Rings, the Rohan Theme, images of the Golden Hall. The mountains looked the part, that's for certain. And I couldn't help but feel some sort of swelling contentment, my life finally in sync with something.

Then came the thoughts of ballerina hippopotami and drunken fauns in vats of grapes and I made a mental note to check that out again. My favorite was always the baby pegasus. The black one.