She's a complicated old girl, Around sixteen years old. Scared of footsteps and loud noise. She scurries away when the dog barks. Her nickname is the Ghost Cat, Because she's rarely seen by anyone. Her only human is my mom. She follows her around And sits by her when she can. She ignores me, the cat person. My mom says she would be much happier If she could trust more people. Clearly, she doesn't agree.
The plant I got for my birthday Withers in the cold air. It doesn't do well in winter. The top of it's stem is pink, Stressed from too much sun. I set it in the window sill And forgot to move it back To the small plate on the corner Of my desk where it lives. It's never fully recovered. There's a bend in it's stem, It leans a little too far one way. I wouldn't say it's thriving, But it's somehow still alive. I guess that's what matters.
The question I keep asking myself. I don't have an answer. I don't think anyone does. We stared at screens As we watched Everything unravel. It was a train wreck But we couldn't look away. How could this be happening? Why isn't anyone stopping this? More questions we asked. We know more now. But it doesn't make things right. We see what we want to see. Even lies if they're presented correctly. We're on different sides, Depending on which truth you believe. But it shouldn't be about truth. It should be about what's right and wrong. What happened was wrong. Where do we go from here?
The light looks different When the sun disappears early Behind gray winter clouds. There's a feeling with how Vivid the earth looks. It's a particular sight That makes me think The day is transitioning Into night an hour before The sun is supposed to set. A bare Christmas tree Waits to be hauled away. Christmas decorations are put Away on the last day of the year. The lights will shine bright On the houses outside When the clock strikes midnight Before being brought down In the new year. The fire resets itself Shortly after turning on. The house is quiet as I write this poem. I'm the only human home. The dog is sleeping In the front room On the couch in front Of the Christmas Tree. One cat is in the basement, Probably lying on a garbage bag Filled with decorative bears. The other cat is in my room, Sleeping on a striped Red and white towel. He's recovering from a Month filled with dogs That wanted to play. He didn't see it The same way.
The paths I walked along in summer Are now muddy from fallen snow. Autumn leaves stick around in early winter. The cold air freezes rain. It's hard to breathe when I can see my breath. I stay inside, wearing fuzzy socks and warm sweatpants. My cardigan has pockets big enough to hold my Kindle. The books I read inspire my writing. I finally wrote the poem that had been On my mind for several days. I didn't know what I wanted it to be Until it unfolded underneath my fingertips. The art of creation, forming something out of nothing. Using words to mold a story not yet told. To see how things evolve with the seasons Through a poet's point of view.
Some nights, I look up towards The sky as the sun is setting And I'll see a masterpiece In front of me. Gigantic clouds reflecting the sun, smaller ones not in the way of light. A reminder of how small we are Compared to the sky above. It's one of those nights Where a beautiful picture Doesn't do it justice.
I knock on all the wood in the room, hoping this is a step in the right direction. I look down and reality splits into two, a new spin on something I know all too well. I throw my phone onto a counter, thinking I'll forget about it for a while. I try to avoid screens, instead I try to read. There I sit until words split and closing one eye no longer suffices. I lie down, covering my eyes, not sure if I'm telling the truth or a lie, that this is a part of the process to feeling fine.
From February 2020
While this pandemic has foiled A lot of plans this year, One thing it didn't mess with was The annual Christmas Tree hunt. Every year for the last sixteen years, My family and some family friends have Wandered into the woods in search of The perfect Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. Normally, when we go on this adventure, My lungs don't do so well. However, thanks to quarantine and walking so much, I could walk up and down hills with more ease. It didn't take too long to find our trees. Afterwards, we had a picnic in the woods. We discussed how crazy things are While breathing in the fresh mountain air.
The moon shines in through my window. Lighting up a spot on the floor, Reminds me of an Edward Hopper painting. I wake from my sleep to let my cat in once more. My room is a safe space from the visiting dogs who do not understand why the cat doesn't want to play. He meows as he walks into my room. I pick him up and place him on my bed. He curls up on the old striped towel And quickly falls asleep. The neighbors across the street Have a blue light shining by their door. I have to sleep on my right side To not be bothered by it. While Christmas lights make everything better, A blue light in the middle of the night isn't it. I stare at the light on the floor Before flipping over to face my sleeping cat. At least someone's content, I think. The darkness slows down time, I fall back asleep quicker than I realize.
I started playing Christmas Music in early November. I listen to it while I write, I write wherever the music takes me. I see Christmas lights being put up earlier this year. We put ours up this weekend, A reminder of how odd this year has been. The Christmas spirit brings people comfort. Comforts have been a necessity when everything In life remains up in the air.