Nothing Like

Jupiter and the Pleiades. November. Northern Hemisphere. Image, my own.

Holocene

When the sky lifts, so lapis and milky blue,
Your ocular senses are overwhelmed
The owl calls out, into and through the pencil-
Sketched branches of the cottonwood, then
Down from the neighbor’s roof, as the golden

Sky continues to lift into day, a flat aquamarine
The stark lines of leafless branches against
The air stand beckoning, the promise and
Possibility of new– growth, change, revivification
Glittering diamonds of momentary snow still

Hold winter’s mystery. We do not know what
We will be when the new buds come, but only
What is– this moment, this tree, this
Possibility of everything, anything
Makes our heads spin and swim

Bounded by our humanness, mortality
Consequence, but dazzled by all that is
In us– the roads we’ve wandered, mountains
We’ve scaled, journeys taken and joyed over
And travailed. So much unknown

It still feels like the owl is a good omen
Round white face, deep open amber eyes, wide
And night-visioned, all the flecks and freckled feather
patterns of each wing spread against dawn and dusk
Gifts that portent deaths and lives to come

No Name Saloon. Park City. Image, my own.

Shoes

When your shoes wear
out
run like hell through
tulip fields
Take off
to the mountains
Climb every geologic
Formation
Just to
Prove
You’re alive
You can
You’re not dead… yet
You still want
To spend that
moment with the crickets
under night’s blackness
only the stars
know you’re there

When your shoes are
worn out
you take your daughter to
the gravel pit
and train
your camera lens
on the North Star
tripod so still
to prove
you know
where you are going
even though you
Don’t
you depress
the shutter
let the sky bleed in
for hours
and all you are left with
is time

No time left
But you have those
Shoes
to remind you
to keep you
on your journey
Home–
Through–
Around–
To–
To that time
When the cosmos
smudged its glory
across the lens of
your camera
Film
Still
the most sure sign
that the stars
will fall in
to center
North
Balance
bringing these stars
to you

Autumn Sunset. November 2024. Image, my own.

Question(s)

For all those who question:
Borders
Boundaries
Countries
Alliances
Allies
Friends
Enemies
Economies
Lovers
Children
Fools
Frauds
Race
Place
Faith

I love you

Winter Dandelion. Acrylic on heavyweight cotton paper. Margo Elizabeth Glass. 2024

Night Guide

When Ursa Major dips so low
In the Northern Hemisphere that
Only her two guiding stars are
Visible in the deep of darkness
Black, the seven sisters start to rise
Pleiades, in silent winter’s night as
Cassiopeia, queen, stands out above
The calm chill also pointing her way to our
Closest cosmic simulacrum Andromeda
The stars are there, uncaring and seemingly
Cold, distant even impossibly far, and yet
Known, seen, perceived though the crickets
Haven’t made a sound, the air, nearly
Incorporeal breaths of rest, sleep,
A thousand dreams take flight

Moon, Venus, Timpanogos. Image, Steve Olpin.

November

My Garden. November 2024. Image, my own.

Every

every Color
all part of all
unity upon Unity
breath After breath
sun Rising sun
moon setting mooN
high in the Wide
Blue bowl of the Sky
star birthing star
miracle joins miracle
death Brings death
life gives Life
bathed In
every Color

Timpanogos, through the window. November 2024. Image, my own.

In Memoriam: November

While the geese continue to fly south
Crying, cawing in the early white billows
And pillars of sky, the snow comes in
Little promises, licking the ground like a prayer
The branches in the woods become
More bare by day, raw and line-worked
Wiring out against the frozen landscape
In stands and thickets tromped and tread
By silent, fervent feet, over and over again
Now the waiting for winter to truly take
Hold, for snow to come and bind up
Scattered grasses, still the scratching leaves.
A memory of Novembers, a palace of dying,
Nostalgia of hearths and firesides of
Rooting, resting and acceptance

Neighborhood walk. Image, my own.

Palace

tides, ever shifting
ever flowing, ocean
wave upon wave
turning over universes
places of refuge

Midway Mercantile. November 2024. Image, my own.

She Burns

No one seems to like it, they
claim her strength is admirable
that it’s a protection to her
and to them, she’s not sure
she burns, like a kiln stoked
into an inferno, she burns like
molten earth just exited from
a magma chamber, bright she burns,
a dragon girl who never wanted
to hurt anyone, seventeen
hundred degree flames hiss at
who she is near, causing a
tremble, a stir, she burns because
she knows that women, for
centuries, have had to grow
small, small and insignificant,
accessory and accompaniment,
to receive life, she can’t ever
let on that she wants learning,
love, expression, voice, power
no those gifts are reserved for
others. She burns like the forge
meant to melt metal, meant to
make paper towel racks and
weapons, she can choose wedding
colors and a matching fascinator
she can choose rugs, mugs, décor,
clothing. She can choose the height
of her heels and the blaze of
her eyes as long as she stays
thin, “nice,” and modest
she complies, and writes it in a poem
where will she go with this fire?

November windows. 2024. Image, my own.

Refuge

From the moment everything broke we wished for a place of peace and refuge. Another person is never a home, only your own skin and bones can hold you. Another person is never a place except for you are your own place inside your sinews and blood streams and heartbeats. A house can be so much more than a home—a refuge, a covering, a landing, a carrying, a place, a palace. But it would be nothing without you and the warm, bright, dark burdened and unburdening beautiful people who surround you—in sorrow and joy, in tears and laughter, in silence and singing. What is a place? A person is always a place– a place for the heart, body, and mind to attend—a place of love and horror, a place of welcome and displacement, a place of empathy and disgust, a place to be thoughtfully alive, in, inside. The heart of the house is the person who beats inside, who braves the storm to return, who lies down on the floor to pray and bless the space because it is all that holds back the outside, all that protects from life.

Autumn walks. 2024. Image, my own.

Prayer

please, please, please
please, please

Outerwear in October

Early Fall

Adobe Spark (17)

Jean Jacket, FleeceLeather Jacket

Not all climates are created for layering, but I live in one that requires it. I still contend that even in a temperate climate, layering is possible if you evaluate your options. A jean jacket, blazer, leather bomber, or even trench coat are universal style staples sea to shining sea.

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