This morning we welcomed in Spring. The season. The sounds. The animals. The changes…and I couldn’t get the words ‘spring chicken’ out of my head. Despite making lists of sights and sounds around me that are definite indications that spring is here…my brain couldn’t let go of ‘spring chicken’.
I am no spring chicken.
Yesterday, I stood in front of our hefty maple.
Her trunk we wrapped in a yarn scarf,
flat-plate basket and fake flowers.
Also, white string lights and a glittery star.
Her base we covered in a small mountain of
burnt yellow crispy leaves she dumped on us
in the fall that we didn’t know where else to put
so we gave them back to her.
There I was, no spring chicken,
standing in front of our hefty maple;
a scarf around my neck to hide my chins.
A long, loose shirt to hide my belly and enough
white hair on my head to boost the light and
put shadows under my eyes.
This spring I am hiding.
The tree called me because she wanted me
to read her poetry. Of course I obliged –
one should always oblige the trees.
But I was nervous, feeling silly
feeling ugly feeling old.
I am no spring chicken.
My pink rubber boots call to childhood,
call to innocence, call to naked in the rain.
I realize I am more worm than snail,
my tendencies are to dig slime nestle push.
I did it.
I read two poems to our maple.
Poems I wrote led by truths in my stuttering soul,
and even though the words came from me, and
even though the words are salvation,
I felt…a way no word could describe or maybe
no word I am brave enough to step into.
The reflection of me in every mirror is always jarring at first.
I see a me that in my mind I do not look like.
My gaze runs circles around the parts of my face
I don’t recognize. I am in constant re-introduction.
A dementia-stuffed wrinkle brings my voice into a
thoughtful, shocked, tentative ‘oh’.
I am no spring chicken and I’ve lost my farm.
I can’t hear the rooster smacking the sunrise
of my youth like I used to.
Maybe today I’ll start collecting the feathers
that are disconnecting during this moulting;
lay them flat between heavy-paged hard-cover
novels about love.
Everyone I know is having strange dreams – and remembering them. It’s important to note that. Early this morning after feeding the dogs, I fell back asleep and dreamt I was in a deli/bakery. I ordered a delicious, huge fresh salad, and a cake. People started lining up behind me and within minutes, the place was the packed. Remember how that used to happen? I was trying to pay but the debit machine kept malfunctioning…so I was searching in my purse, which was big and a mess, trying to pull out cash I knew I had but just couldn’t get my hands on. People started yelling at me, at the server. We were sweating from frustration and embarrassment. Finally, I found a fifty dollar bill and shoved it in the server’s hand. “Just take this. Keep the change.” My salad and cake were a bit too much to carry but I managed to get it all into my arms and shuffle out the door. People were still yelling at me as I left. Then I woke up. *she shakes her head*
It’s raining. Miller is doing school work and humming a song from ‘Moana’. I’m feeling pensive…and don’t want to check the emails that keep booping into my inbox. I think I’ll get out the electric Brother. Thursday and Friday mornings are supposed to be for my personal writing.
It’s Thursday and I only know that because I’ve looked at the calendar sixteen times already this morning.
Tomorrow is May 1st – this I cannot quite handle.
Big love. Stay kind. Be creative.
The morning writing sessions will continue on through August. For more details, please CLICK HERE FOR FIREFLY CREATIVE WRITING.