To Warm Me

She is a monster waiting to swallow the world. Really. Look at her (maw at the ready, lips as sharp as blades) waiting to bloom into something bright and beautiful that promises to take your breath away. Fine, so she will keep you from breathing by being all stunning and stuff, but your brain will still starve for air… um, I might’ve taken this metaphor a bit too far *cough*.
Anyhoo, from this angle, doesn’t my amaryllis look like a glorious monster about to swallow something whole? At first, I wondered if she was working with Cthulhu, but… no tentacles. So, she’s probably a free (freaky) agent.

Yes, my Wicked Luvs, you are correct. This is how my plants and I survive winter (and those long…….. periods between recovering/healing and more medical procedures to come—we birth tales, giggle and cackle at wondrous (if silly) things. All right, I tell the tales. But my plants are great listeners.

to warm me and mine,
I (will) spring stories
out of snow in March

in my urban woods,
limbs stiff but spread wide, I wait
for the kiss of spring

The Pretty Corpses of Flowers

I was about to post a rant about some woman who wanted to sell posters of one of my blackouts… without paying me. But as I reread what I wrote, my blood began to boil… So, I deleted the whole thing, and opened my “Awesome Things My Love Says” folder.

My sexy Piano Man has a way with words that reach my heart and my funny bone. The other day, he texted me after a show, to say, “Warning! I’m bringing home some flower corpses.” He knows I don’t much care for flowers that have been cut just for decoration, and he also knows that if the poor things were already mutilated, I wouldn’t want their sacrifice to be for nothing. I do my best to find a way to show them some love.

It was a big bouquet. Some of the flowers are still drying. But the roses, carnations, and some greenery and fillers (whose name I don’t know), have dried quite prettily.

I used a rose petal on this stitched poem. Some of the outer petals I offered to the moon, now sit by my typewriter in view of the window. I put together a bouquet I can glimpse while I’m writing. The leaves and other greenery went in a jar until the muse thinks of something. The fillers are in a wee bowl, in front of a sculpture of Old Man Death (you know how much the grinning Reaper loves his flowers).

By the time I was done, I was grinning as toothily as… well, as toothily as me. Playing with nature (even mildly dead nature) is good therapy, picturing the bloody things my muse thinks should happen to those who want to steal our mind-babies… not so much.