Warts and Wings

Ok, another day. Pregnant with possibilities, I must remind myself of that first thing in the morning. With the coffee and the itchy remnants of the nighttime dream and half naked in the heat, I sit to do this journal thing in spite of the packing I need to do.

The words always comfort and packing to move risks tampering with a very delicate balance these days. Between thirst and quenching, I reside in a half moon state. But that's only because it is morning.

As I write, the edges smooth and the day looks as shiny as a newborn. And let's face it, the coffee kicks in.

Over the last few months my life has been a giant pinata taking licks from all sides. Now it is breaking wide open and I am amazed to find the answers that had alluded me until now. I am sky, wide open.

This is what I learned in this process and would like to share. Self-renewal is the only true path to freedom. Think about it. How lush and plump with Beauty are we when we embrace our warts with our wings. Without permission from anyone, we accept who we are and fly.

Scalding -- Hey, It's Hot

summer was unrelenting,
wanted to be seen;
a cruel season jealous of
spring with its pastels
and anemic flowers,
hated fall for the colors,
despised winter’s frozen lace

the heat was physical
sun punishing
sky boiling up
scorching breeze
people wilting on the street
looking for puddles of shade,
children splashing in hydrant
cool

it was 3-digit heat,
straw hat women wore sundresses
that went limp and
men didn’t even notice them –
it was too hot

people gasped for air
and prayed for rain
that had proven fickle

finally it was an August day
with summer green
crisping around the edges,
street urchins stupid and still
and temperature tipping the scales,
the clouds began to pout
the rain complained
the moon scolded the sun
and Mother Earth listened

when the storm came
lightning cut a hole in the sky,
rain poured and the
streets steamed;
children and grown-ups
fell from their air conditioned
bumkers looking for relief;
the air loosened up
flowers wept
and the wind caught its breath

fall stood on the horizon,
paint brush in hand,
waiting for summer’s
tantrum to subside

the moon forgave the sun
so full of itself;
as day eased into night

summer stuttered
and caught a bug in her
throat,
beat upon her chest
and cursed the Mother Herself;
the season collapsed
and the vultures circled round

she died a harlot’s death,
frightened and alone,
only to find out that
fall was a mirror of herself

the angels eased her brow
and anointed her Autumn;
the copper-red-bronzing
of the leaves was by her own hand
and all the while
she had merely been
jealous of herself