File me under ‘miscellaneous’ – a vast assortment of burps and hiccups – grace and gawk. Neither here nor there. Neither this nor that. Gossamer wings paired with path-worn sneakers. Part Mother Earth and part Blogging Whore.
New Age. Old fashioned. Free thinker. Conservative voter. No category. No mold. A cacophony of contradictions. A long list of mistakes. A short list of accomplishments. A grocery sack filled with lists of things to do; scratched like chicken tracks on anything that would hold ink, lead and words.
No tab ready made for my file folder – bulging with ideas, half-executed plans and what ifs. No signature fashion statement, nor scent nor hairstyle.
Yeah – file me under miscellaneous.
What does Christine have filed under miscellaneous?
The computer hums and snickers a nag like clanging spoons upon my beloved soup pot. And it cries, “Pay attention to me!”
But I refuse my electro-taskMaster and languish over recycled morning coffee. At the window, the last vestige of daylight offers itself and chittering birds, fluff for sleep.
The ice cream truck chirps its incongrous tune then fades fast into the still of nightfall. Spaghetti sauce simmers on the stove and my ‘thank-God-it’s-the-end-of-the-work-day’ cigarette plumes with more grace than I can muster. (Oh, my aching back and throbbing feet.) Tells my brain: Relax – Stop thinking – Give it a rest.
Emails and obligations await. Dust bunnies conspire to ambush. And that laundry is not going to put itself away. (Damn it.)
Still, I stick. Watch the final light fade and fold into the night sky.
Home. It’s good to bE.
What’s clanging Christine’s spoon?
November Moon has stolen Summer’s kiss and cast it into the abyss. I watch from frosty windows as she covers the sky with black velvet robes and adjusts her crown of artic icy sparkle.
My cheek feels her chill and brings the light of her last escapade and offense. Heart stops and aches a little – tears freeze halfway down, throat catches breath before it fogs the pane. I do not welcome the snow but I miss it now. I am a child of the Sun but the Moon brings dark winter into my embrace and I hold steadfast. Stubborn.
To forgive and forget is a lovely cliche – but it has no use in the real world. To forgive is divine, but I am not a god – just a mere human, frail and volatile, confused and conflicted, sad and regretful.
I want to forgive you. I try to forgive you. But I can’t forgive you. Why? I ask the November Moon but she only smiles her sly, albeit radiant smile and eases further across the sky. Making me want to follow her but I am too weary.
It’s true. Love is not for me – the magic and joy will always elude. Pass by my door and dance after more deserving souls.
Where has the November Moon taken Christine?
The earth lay fallow
rich in its welcome
Loamy and new
The death swept away
Embrace open to sun
thirsting for water
Aching to grow
and birth rich bounty
A maiden who whisper
to stars and
worships the moon
A canvas blank
impatient to erupt in color
And I, with seed
and with shovel
oblige the sweet earth
to fulfill its destiny
Christine’s fallow field lies here.