And it frees me. (Poem to midnight.)

Attracted by the powerful pull only a single string can summon by,
walking the line of notes, exhaling all the burdens of the day
– and it calls me, calls me

Inhaling dusty rhythms of old drumhead leather,
moving with its tidal waves, a rhythm so familiar my body would know to follow it in the dark
– and it carries me, it carries me

A guiding turn of the head, a tiny nod and a glance to the heart of the circle,
I’m following the lead into the sun, the warmth of joyful song and laughter
– and it frees me, and it frees me.

seasons of writing

red pages slipping from between my fingers
words found and, unspoken, forgotten.
my unlikely muse went to sleep
as did the ghosts of old days.
so many leaves to turn
from golden red to yellow on the trees
autumn came
with force
winter will trample snow from its boots
shivering mitten-clad hands will take off the woolen knitted word hat
exhaling letters written on crisp violet pages by the fireplace.
cold roads, white walls
a room of square folios in pale spring green

delivered to my wooden heart.