Today Aram Khachaturian’s Masquerade Waltz has ear-wormed its insinuating coils into my head and refuses to worm out, and my mind is a swirling mass of blue and purple ballgowns hoar-frosted with diamonds that glitter in the candlelight.
If I spoke with my hands and not my mouth, if my words were framed with graceful gestures and the eloquence of agile fingers, how would I whisper secrets in the shushing darkness? When it is eyes, not speechless ears, that hang on every word, would flirtation be a tango for two hands, and anger jazz and swash like Martha Graham? Would girl talk swirl and flutter through the fingers like a restless flock of sparrows? Could I soliloquize without a mirror?
No mystical phrase to murmur mindlessly until it becomes a series of meaningless sounds. No beads to occupy the fingers with the counting out of repetitions until a mystical number is reached, with nothing to show for it all but the passage of time.
A ball of yarn in a bowl, blue mist through clear glass. The fingers move, the thread flows from the bowl, winds snakelike through the hand, is caught up in the needles’ dance, and something useful takes shape.
In the mind’s still pond,
the silver thoughts swim slowly.
The heron chooses.
Be ever vigilant. Happiness is a ninja that can strike at any moment.
The cobalt blue glass from which I drink the sweet golden cold of apple juice, thirst quenching for both eye and tongue.
I went outside this morning, stepped off the porch and looked up, and the gold and oxblood red of the leaves on the trees next door, their colors richer than Croesus against the cold-crisped blue of sky, leaned down and gently kissed my eyes. I let the kiss linger.
Poetry that harps on your heart.
Crocheting snowflakes with crochet thread that is twice as thick as quilting thread, and a size 5 (1.9 mm) crochet hook and a crochet pattern. Took me an hour to decipher the pattern and wrestle a finished object out of it, frogging out several bits in the process and trying again. I’ve finished crocheting it now, but it still has to be pinned out, soaked with stiffening liquid, sprinkled with opalescent embossing powder, turned over to have the process repeated, and a loop of ribbon hot glued on.
I’ll bet God didn’t have to work so hard to create snowflakes. All She had to do was just create a universe where specific laws of physics and chemistry operate, so that when She created water, it would enter a solid state at 32 F/0 C and form a six sided crystal. Then She built a planet out of dust and gas, a rocky world with lots of liquid water, gave it a humongous moon, set it spinning at an axial tilt of 23.5º, put it into a slightly elliptical orbit 93 million miles away from a G-type, main sequence star, sat back and watched that sucker churn them out by the bazillions. Piece of cake.
Posted in Ice, Winter
Tagged Ice, snow
In the flat lands where the wind plays for keeps, and what it takes is gone, gone, gone. Where it thrums through the utility wires and leaves a film of dust over everything, including the sky. Where the wind has urgent and important things to do someplace else. Where the wind is as bored and restless as a rambunctious four-year-old who’s been cooped up inside all day. Where vast herds of wind take days to pass through. Where it blows with a fierce, relentless current like a river rushing through a gorge.
Posted in Wind