Asterisms

While she slept the stars stood still, the wolves were silent and those birds didn’t fly and yet the roses grew tall; a wall ready to tumble at his feet and all the nights were days, fragrant and dust grey...

I'm attempting to forge ahead with remaking/rewriting the tales for college; making them tangible, sounding them out in rhythm and setting them in ink. Making connections, tracing those red maps, late nights spent wearing out pens and days forming needle wounds and thread burns on my hands. Briars, bones, red silk and red thread, pebbles; pale and smooth, storms in tea cups and foxglove fingers, snow on the ground and paths through the woods, and so much more... Thirteen Tales of Love, Death and the Weather.

Today has been full of papers and books and my arms full of flowers, the sky is full of birds and stars and those perfect red apples tell me letters I'm not sure I want to hear. Today I love words on white and well worn notebooks, I love windswept skies and the grey of my scarf; lace and fluttering, I love the green of this land and boys with green in their eyes and as always I hate hurtful anger. Today the woman I am dreams of keys and honeybees and rainy days, she is so very restless waiting for those swallows to fly home and that pearl still sits in the hollow of her throat...

(first image is by Sara Morris)