So, the day before Easter, dark rainy skies. Droplets of water hanging off the young oak in front of my window. It's too early to get up, just 7:00 am-ish. And already reading my emails.
Off to New York this week with the family, to see The Producers and Spam alot on Broadway. tripping the light...
Dear Muse, it was a full moon two nights ago, and I thought of you. Black crow lands on the ash tree, bare, bleak against white siding. Land on my soul, touch me with your art, let the dual muses of poetry and Montreal, the city with heart, breathe into me.
Maple, dark with rain and moss, shorn branches from the ice storm, still unhealed wound on your side. There are too many of us, poets, writing in the dawn.
Ms. Menopause read on the night of the full moon, to a small audience at the Atwater Library. Dull room, poor lighting, I forgot my reading glasses. Someone kindly lent me theirs, and I noticed a smokey odour as I lifted them to my face. Later I pulled on the leopard spotted pillbox hat, the long gloves, to read a message from the Queen of Heaven. Be brave, foolish heart. Expose yourself to art.
one day, somone will post a comment....
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