In this place, the mothers speak a bitter, blooded language, their whispers of why carry through forests and over mountains to the cool blue seas they can only picture
but imagine following clouds in sublime harmony, as if the air breathed hope
at night they listen for the moon’s song as she recalls light–
it is there somewhere in time, above, beneath, around, floating like the fiddler’s tune, leading them to sanctuary in a bright bird-dawn.
The Oracle’s Original set gave me words of doom and violence (but also the moon, fiddle, and light), while the nature set, gave me words of peaceful beauty. Both sets gave me “if.” I thought of Ukraine as I began writing, but also what is going on all over the world as authoritarian rule is growing, and how such things have happened over and over again.
“To be a Flower, is profound Responsibility —” –Emily Dickinson, Bloom
Crocuses
Northwest wind whisks away the heron-grey, spins thread from cast-off eggshells the blue of hope, the color of tranquility blankets the sky, reflected in rivers and sea,
Feathery Clouds Swept Away by the Wind
while frosted leaves formed in midnight chill by feathered flap of snow goose flight melt in the rising glow of honeyed light pouring from above–
Reflections
now mothers seek their daughters, mourn their fathers and their sons as bulbs like hidden secrets wake to bloom in yellow, purple, and white, a robin sings
Sunrise
to make Ceres smile from a transitory space– mutability is a constant, death follows life– a brave woman curses soldiers with seeds,* sunflowers will grow on your graves,
and blood-moon nourished, mothers and daughters with wombs both planted and fallow carry on, waiting for a sprout of yellow green to waken in the sun.
The weather has been so changeable—freezing cold winds, then warmer days. The crocuses are sprouting. It’s been difficult though to think of anything except the Russian invasion of Ukraine. I’ve been having lots of dreams about mothers and daughters, some anxious, some funny, some filled with love and tenderness.
We watched the new movie Parallel Mothers (rental from Amazon—it may be coming to Netflix at some point). It is director Pedro Almodóvar’s most recent film, starring Penelope Cruz, who frequently stars in his films. It’s about two single mothers, one near 40, the other much younger, who meet in a hospital while they’re both in labor. They bond and later meet again. Cruz’s character is seeking help from a forensic anthropologist to uncover the mass grave where her great-grandfather and other men in her town were killed by fascist soldiers early in Franco’s rule. As well as mothers (a frequent Almodóvar theme), It seems to me that one theme of the movie is secrets, and how too many are willing to ignore and sweep the ugliness and tragedies away. It seems very pertinent right now.
We also watched a horror show on Netflix, Archive 81, that we both liked very much. It’s about a film restorer who is hired to take care of some old films that a grad student made about residents in a NYC apartment building. He uncovers—hmmm—more secrets! It’s very well done, and it definitely kept our interest! Tonight, we’re going to catch up on Mrs. Maizel—a Monday Maizel. I made knishes!
Grey Winter growls, Spring dreams of green when flowers grow, and love birds preen. Soon rabbits wake, the vixen prowls then runs and hides, afraid she’s seen the fearful beast, who’d foul with howls spring dreams of green–grey Winter growls.
Now what comes next, before green spring when sparrows fly, and robins sing? Do wolves bare fangs? Do bears get vexed by hopes or dreams, by what spring brings, and seek with blood, destroy, annex before green spring? Now what comes next?
Before spring comes, the bullets fly. The people grieve, the winds just sigh as they drift by soldiers and drums. Power? Money? Who knows why the bloodlust soars. The moon just hums– the bullets fly, before spring comes.
For dVerse, a made-up form called the Sparrowlet. You can read about it here. The name of the form made me think of spring, and I wrote the first stanza yesterday. Then when I heard the news today, I wrote the last stanza. So then, I wrote the middle stanza to connect them. We are living in a very scary time, and so much disinformation is being spread constantly.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 