this day

i woke and wrote. wrote and wrote and wrote and checked the date, checked the calender.

it is the last day of november.

some sense of fear welled up.
some sense of excitement.
this thin day- the eve of december.
cold.
bright.
a needle.

is it dipped in silver?

my hope flies up. the new year is almost here. the same hope i had this day a year ago. but our year fell to disrepair almost as quickly as the year before it. i am anxious for a good one. or anxious for my eyes to change. i want to see the good. i want to be aware. but the fear comes closer... this is how it goes.

will the silver tarnish?

my child-like hope. my wishing well. my small want for everything to be okay.

star light, star bright. you sit there in your cold orbit, little star, with your fingers jammed in your stupid fucking pointy ears. have you heard me even once? have you ever heard anyone? prayers filed away between planets, gone unheard, unnoticed, and our world is spinning, spinning, spinning.

i am doing my best to listen.

i am doing my best to dig my self out, away from this type of grim anxiety. hope and fear, back and forth, back and forth. let me stay on the good ground, planted in hope, planted in the sun. let me think of the forest. let me think of my mother and the forest behind her, behind her roses. deer-bitten. slowly frozen. the forest is not to blame. crackling. the sounds are strange. it is easy to become afraid.

i am doing my best to listen.

this day.
this thin day.
this eve.
the cold sweeps in but the sun is out, unclouded. the crow comes to squawk. the branches come down. the vines twist and grow. my feet will pound and my heart and my breath and my hope. pound, pound, pound their way toward the end of the year. the thread end. the needle cut loose. a new eye to push myself through.

i am doing my best to taste the silver below the tarnish.

i am doing my best to listen.