Small Stone for 3 February, 2018

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.

Small Stone For 2 February, 2018

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?

Small Stone for 25 November, 2016

In the early morning darkness, eyes are useless.  It is touch that defines the world — the warm cocoon of the bedclothes, the cool air on my nose where it pokes above the covers, the warm furry kitty body curled against my shoulder.  After a moment on the surface of wakefulness, I take a deep breath of quietude, and sound like a whale back down into the depths of sleep.

Small Stone for March 26, 2015

The flanks of night are moonlight white, grey dappled with clouds.

Small Stone for October 5, 2011

Lying in the moonless darkness, I check my figures one more time.  The contents of the pantry, plus the contents of the freezer, plus the unopened bag of cat food in the coat closet.  More food than month.   I subtract one worry.  Sleep comes.

Small Stone for July 12, 2011

A cryptic hieratic scrawl of black Sharpie on white paper, cascades off the thin blue lines. I search for meaning’s footprints, but the paws of passing night have smudged its trail past all deciphering. “(something) (something) black  (something)  puming? (something) bat? (or maybe  boy?) springs (something) (something) noz?” The only sense that I can make of it is that I cannot write legibly in the dark.