The First Day of Spring

I nearly gave up on myself, 
  I wanted only to sink into that 
  Dark, Torturous room—slick grinding, and muffled, warbled, garbled screams—
  and lie on the floor weeping, weeping, 
  weeping... Heart sick

(She Dove
    Came back)

But then, with a measure of hope in magic
  I went instead into the 
  gloaming Present Peace room—water singing lightly, stones set, and a guiding voice—
  and lay on the floor breathing, breathing, 
  breathing... Heart lift.

She drove
    Came home

And when I came home, 
  I walked across worn wood in that
  humble house that is a room—wind whisping, chimes swinging, and your keyed thoughts— 
  and we lay on the bed talking, sharing, 
  touching... Heart felt.

The Melancholy of Resistance

Think of them as Spirit voices. Emotions find attachments. I could feel her anxiety. She is me.
  

  At first, her practiced detachment was slightly offending—she clearly wouldn't stand to brush shoulders with any strange persons, and eye contact was to be strictly avoided except in the most extreme cases—then it all became very amusing. Not as boisterous and blundering as Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet, if you please), but rather, she is a woman, as she recognizes herself, a lady, who, when travelling alone amongst coarse crowds, keeps a discreetly dignified exterior, while internally she  staves off her anxiety by keeping moral tabs on the senseless humanity around her. Her attempt to reserve a circle of defensive space around herself fails to keep away the broad back belonging to the broadcloth coat or the harried face and voice of the peasant woman. Her distress at the leering man, the noisy rabble, the lurching of the train, motivates an inner dialogue eventually driving her to high anxiety—the "attempted rape," the brutal beating in the darkened street, the failing electricity, no help forthcoming, and all she can do is run, run, run from her rumpled dignity, from strangers who assault with scent and sound, from her own gigantic fears.

I Love Thursday Mornings

...waking up 
Your furred face, 
smelling wild, 
upturned and glowing,
I roll and burrow
into deep sleep smells,
and take the tendrils of dreams,
curling into my core, 
and gather the menagerie of watchers
  who witness

  I love Thursday mornings. Thursday mornings are my preview of the weekend, my reward for half a week's worth of work, a special delight that comes for no special reason, other than it's Thursday. Waking up, feeling you wake up next to me, slower than other mornings, knowing there will be coffee brewed and shared, still hot, spiced and creamed, held in matching mugs; there might be eggy-cheese sandwiches on toast...it sounds like the weekend, but it's Thursday and it's delicious. 

  Thursday mornings are good for me, and today was especially good.