Inside the ache of springtime (April 15, 2013)

I ache for more but want to simplify,

the ultimate contradiction of a life well-lived,

whatever that even means.

Those are the words that I wrote in an email to a friend yesterday.

I miss the artist that is me.

The weather is aching too, to be recognized and to be rewarded for its
erraticism and artistry.
I am both elated and frightened.
It seems that as fast as I move, I cannot move faster than change.
It is upon me and beneath me, both cushioning my falls and poking at my back.

I was made for poetry,

there was never a doubt about that,
so for me the winter was a love song of hot chocolate, warm socks,
frozen mornings, and songs that start with “awe” and end in “aw shucks.”

I like wearing gloves.
It makes me feel like I am protected from the wars of my world,
those that take me hostage inside my thoughts and my schedule.

I’m not very good at letting go, I never have been.
But it’s okay, I don’t have to be everything to everyone,
including myself,

I can be broken and whole simultaneously.

Because I am dancing and stumbling as I type this letter.

In the morning now I hear the birds,
and they are competing with the garbage trucks for attention.
I admit that I miss the sound of snow.
Some may assume she is silent, but I perceive her to be a promise.

Do you know what a promise sounds like?
It sounds like snow falling,
it sounds like the earth opening to receive that which is drifting from above,
and stretching its fingers and its toes out into its final resting place.

I ache for more,
I wonder if that is why I am writing to you again.
It was too boring and too trite to be so anxiety-ridden by assignments
and by running errands to abandon this majestic ship of

I didn’t stop thinking about you, not even when I was sleeping.
If you could touch my tears you would know they are wet.

Can we believe though even when we cannot see or touch?

I didn’t stop thinking about you
or about love letters,

not even when I was snowing –

Your Higher Self

P.S. For now I will be writing to you on a weekly basis.

From there, only the birds know. Only the birds know.

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