finchheart
I want to lay my cheek on the powder red chest of this
constant winged visitor, perhaps resident of that nest with a new white clump
of fur on its underside. But mostly I just want to rest on his softcrimsonthroat
feeling the way it rises and retreats as he continues chattering to me, or to his
mate, or to nobody in particular. I imagine how it would feel to gently hug him
between my cupped hands. And I wonder if his redheadchestneck would feel
different from the other feathers. Pigment from food like oils on a canvas.
pollenlust
Sitting here outside with sunwarmed knees that bless my
day - I see some white cotton floating toward me…several pea sized globs that
float toward and then away from my wanting fingers.
grieftending
I want to climb inside the bones of her grieving heart, to
light a small fire that will warm her - that will keep her from freezing in the
isolation of what can now only be memories, nothing more to make together
except what her heart and mind can story into her breath. I want to plant a
small sapling that can grow, under which she will find a cool breeze, a shadow
in which to lie down, a place that will offer her solace as she reimagines real
trees and a real, tenacious, tender love that lives in her now and forever. I
want to take the colorful pieces of the shattering and create a mosaic that
journeys their union, their life and love and disagreements and abiding
companionship. I want to blare to the world the final endearing tendernesses
between them as hope, as beacon, as testament to what-was-will-continuetobe-but-has-changed-shape-alittlebitforlater-alotfornow.
I would gladly stoke the fire, trim the weeds around the base of the growing
tree, composeglueshineandhang the art piece. She – of Grace and Wisdom, of
Truth and Light - does not need me to do anything; she desires only my
presence. It is for myself that I want to light and plant and create and tell
all her sacred, beautymaking stories.
irislonging
I want to crawl naked into the depths of the iris, with
the silky skin of the periwinkle petals arching slack over the opening as they
do: once inside, protected, secreted away, swaddled. I need to explore their tall
inner walls, a spelunker noting the infinite hieroglyphics of yellow, white, deeper
purple and the cavernous crevices where flowerdermis meets and folds and
curves. And inside there I find the gift, the way it moves like wet paint when
the wind comes; the way it decays into a bud of sticky goo; the way it rises
taller alongside another and another and another; the way it begs to be
touched, the softrestedpetal lifted up so that eyes can bore downward, gently
but probingly; the way the color deepens and the pattern brightens; the way it
reminds me that it is not the lilac-oh-so-sumptuously-enticing-me-to-inhale-long-and-deeply-everytime-I-go-outside-or-even-look-outside-so-long-as-they-are-a’bloom-in-my-yard;
the way it teaches me that there is always more – to learn to seek to see; the
way it teaches me patience – to not be greedy all at once; the way it slows me
down to enjoy just this one small but grandly glorious present that is alive
and gleaming.
All blog images created and/or photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
