Sunday, 30 December 2012

274. The New Year

We look ahead to the end of the calendar,
to the page about to turn over into nothing
but a pale yellow wall that didn't fade with the rest.

Do we list goals
and dreams
and every little detail that we plan to achieve?
Or set a theme,
an idea too dangerous to contain?

We watch where our feet take us,
revel in the possibilities
like they're a warm blanket
on a cold, windy night.
We breathe in the trust,
the visions as they lay before us
like a deck of cards
ready to play.

Saturday, 29 December 2012

273. Transience

The city seems strange but familiar
after more than a week in its maze,
like someone's moved a piece just enough
that everything feels wrong
and nothing fits together quite right
and nothing is stable or real.

Friday, 28 December 2012

272. The Effect of the Desert

Cold rain falls on us,
splatters our hair, our clothes, our skin;
we still notice it.

Thursday, 27 December 2012

271. Delays

The queue to the ticket counter doesn't move,
this steady group of anxious people,
waiting to see if we can move to another flight,
if we'll still reach our destination,
those expecting us,
our connections,
but we all hear bad news of some form,
before we slink off to the small sitting area
to piece together a patchwork plan
from the tattered remains of our vision.

Wednesday, 26 December 2012

270. Chickadee & Squirrel

The chickadee approaches the downed bird feeder,
slow and cautious on its small legs
as it hops closer to the shiny black seeds
and the large gray squirrel feasting on the other side.
The bird darts in for a seed
before retreating a couple hops.
Unnoticed on the other side of the feeder,
the chickadee braves the feeder for one more seed,
its tiny beak mimicking the squirrels greedy paws
before the chickadee flies off,
leaving the squirrel to eat its fill.

Tuesday, 25 December 2012

Monday, 24 December 2012

268. A Lament to the End of the World

Days have passed,
since the world was supposed to end,
one timezone at a time,
everything disappearing,
or dying,
or growing tragic at the top of the hour,
so that neighbors disappear before neighbors.
Everyone would watch and worry
at the inevitable disaster ready to strike
with the bell chimes,
wishing furiously that they'd never known
when the worst would befall them.

Sunday, 23 December 2012

267. A Touch of Home

The roads are familiar
as I navigate through ice,
the intense glare of the arching sun,
and I do not fear much
as long as the lines are painted
and I know I'm on the American side.

Still, something remains just out of sight,
looming and maybe coming closer,
something ready to break this bubble
we're living in for one week,
something that will say
this doesn't make sense.

Saturday, 22 December 2012

266. Snow Flurries

The newscaster promises snow,
thick white water clumps
to drift down from the sky
and blanket the grass,
the road,
the railings and decking,
so we can stay inside,
burrow in the blankets
without guilt.

Later, we step out into the world,
freshly-painted with ice and snow
that clings to our eyelashes,
touches our hair so delicately
that we know this cannot last.

Friday, 21 December 2012

265. Outside

I stay silent in the backseat
as we glide down the city road,
my eyes flitting from small businesses
to pedestrians
to rows of stoplights.

This is what it's like in a city.

The car stops and starts,
slips from one lane to another,
turns corners hiding buildings
I've never seen.

I think
I used to live like this.

This is what normal is like.

Living in the outback will never be the same
now that I've remembered what life is like