When winter cut my wings, you wove me a coat made of melody. Your notes flew through cities and forests, shaking shadows, wrapping gentle strings around bare bones.
“Your touch is balsam brewed out of knowing,” I said, wishing I could sing my best songs through broken teeth.
When winter slowed the dance of my tongue, you didn’t try singing for me. You soothed the chill with music, kissed my lips and fingers better, warmed the red in my marrow, until I could bleed my own words.
the wee notes…
– these days, I do everything a bit slower. Tasks I used to complete in a few minutes can take hours… even days, if my flesh and bones refuse to cooperate. When I am at my slowest (but stubbornly insisting in taking care of my own things), I admire my Piano Man the most. Because few medicines are as powerful as knowing that those you love are willing to help you keep your Self as yours as your current circumstances allow.
– linked to Sunday’s Whirligig, The Sunday Muse, The Sunday Whirl, and to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.