morning always comes, and this morning came early and cold.

Goodbye Fall.
Goodbye.
Goodbye to windstorm dry-spell rainy day after rainy day.
Goodbye to waiting out a long-overdue change.
Goodbye to season's turn and daylight dwindling.
Goodbye to leaf-crunch, smoke-stack, fire-night.
Goodbye, more personally, to re-gaining control recently lost, to losing sight, to hiding what was once so absent that it didn't demand the hiding. Goodbye to idleness and confusion, goodbye to silences and aversions. This is a hopeful farewell, but I say it nonetheless. Good-riddance, secretiveness and silence, and a lousy, lousy language.

Hello Winter.
Hello frost.
Hello breath-on-hands.
Hello beginnings of whiteness and quiet and nature's death.
Hello palette o' white-grey-none. Hello lasts of the leaves, lasts of the colors.
On this more personal note: Hello fire. Hello doing. Hello now. Hello change. Hello to the end of hibernation, to twinkling lights, to addressing what has so far been covert and untouchable. Hello.

Happy erasure, happy blank, happy hope, happy beginnings.
I am head-nauseous but hopeful.
I have so many things to order and place today, so many pieces of my puzzle to pick up.

~~~~~

Cleaning.
Laundry, sweeping, dishes, trash.
Write.
Read, a little.
Curl up with a book, perhaps.

Make it through the week without destruction or deviousness. Sounds funny, doesn't it? Deviousness. It is the second week of November, though, and I just want to walk through the rest of it upright, not skidding or slanting or at a 47 degree angle to the truth. I just want to walk. Upright. For three weeks. Am I aiming too high?

-Love Letter, Sylvia Plath, Dates Unknown

I wasn’t going to write here, but I cannot have an empty blog. That’s just silly.

We’ll see how I do on my updates, though.


I do want to post something, but this time it will not be my own.

This is the poem that made me want to write with the purpose of connecting with people, rather than just to clean out my head. Sylvia Plath was the first author that that I felt I could relate with.


Love Letter

Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter--
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.

And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.

Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.