February 18th, 2006

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Early Morning -

I am up. The moonlight woke me. Actually, I was awake a good deal of the night. It is hard to deal with the pain. I did take Ibuprofen, and still, it probed through, and so, now, I am happy to be up with the movement of the moon, announcing a new day. Today is the anniversary of my mother's death, so we are gathering today to celebrate her life. I am hoping to feel well.
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My Offering for my Mother Today!

 

                     For My Mother

       

                         I layer prayer for you,

                                    my mother

                                    after your death

                                    wanting you to float

                                    on deep, soft rest

 

                          I layer prayer for you, my mother

                                      wings of feathers

                                      turned to the west,

                                      the breath that comes

                                      when harvest is nest

 

 

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Good Evening!

This cold day is coming to a close. We shared a lovely day, warmed by the fire,  and dining out.   I spent a good deal of the day under the most beautiful, warmest, coziest quilt ever made, and it was made  just for me.   I received it yesterday, and I am like a bird in a nest as I sleep under the safety of it's wings.  The woman who made it for me enclosed a poem which I would love to share with you, but I need to run it by her first.  I see that my attempts at poetry are opening you up, to the poetry in you, and how very wondrous it is. 

I offer my morning poem, though now it is evening. I have gone from the moon in the sky to darkness now, and the moon will appear again.

Coffee, Waffles, and Ink

The morning begins
with the white light of the moon.
I fill the pot with water,
spoon the coffee in,
and push the button.
I mix flour, baking power, sugar,
soda, and salt,
add eggs, vanilla,
butter, oil, and milk.
I pour a portion of the batter
into the waffle iron,
and watch it rise and steam,
content in its division of squares,
that connect.
That is when ink says I am here
to record,
and I say,
not now.
I want to watch butter melt
with syrup,
like willows with streams -