Poetry and Writes

You (WRITE)

*A write for 20 minutes. Include the words PONDEROSA(S), METEOR(S), and CREEKS. *

A cottage deep in the woods. What do you see through its stained-glass windows? Your eyes are supernovas, spiderwebs dangle in the dusted air, catching dew from the mountains. You're sick, looking out, but you don't know why. The cottage holds you within its confines, leaking stars through perforated walls. A breath of wind yells to you beyond the glassy cages. And you're taken back to that vacation with your family, oh so long ago, when you drove across the state searching for an out from tall skyscrapers, so you could see the meteors the weatherman foretold of, hear the quiet churning creek--its thoughts not unlike your ravings now--and smell the vanilla from the fissures in the ponderosa pines. Ah! Those ponderosas. The name makes you cry. Their scent makes you weep. And their voices. Well, that is when it becomes too much.

And you remember sitting on a swingset with your sister, outside a Wisconsin Motel 6. She teaches you to pump your legs, to spin on the rubber seat on your stomach, panting like a dog. And--? You--? You had a dog once, didn't you? And it howled when it stayed with your parents as you left for college--some state-of-the-art new one.

And your eyes mist as you recall an early early memory--a world filled white--sugared snow--and there's something about a guest shop, a lookout, and twin peaks across a frosted canyon. And fire leaches from the dirt itself, cold orange hands graying, graying, as the feathers fall down and snare in the ropes of your eyes.

And this memory reminds you of white hats with blue ribbons streaming behind them, of ducklings and boaters and a wild turquoise ocean. The sun shines bright on the surface of the water, and you smell caramel corn, but the scent is so sweet you feel faintly sick--but your father offers you a bag of grapes--Victorian style--and you take them, smile, look at the boat cutting the waves with its painted scythe, the motor unearthing foam, the gulls calling.

Now the memories all fade so fast, petals to be scattered in a fruitful bath. You put on a song, steep in the water, sink your head down, breathing but not. Dreaming but not. The sounds are muted and soggy but not. You catch a whiff of fire and you rush from the bath, draping gingham across your flaking arms. Yes! you shout. Yes, I am winged!

And you emerge onto the slim wraparound porch, searching for the fire, but the ancient woods don't stir.

Do stir, but don't.

Do speak, but don't.

Awake, but not.

And you remember the feeling of pen on pad. Oh to be there again, watching the paper uncurl, laughing as it drifts away, plumed ash. And you go, you go, you go for twenty minutes, then pause, bring up your hand.

And you wrap the gingham fully round yourself, get in the mindset, and you go, you go, you go for twenty minutes, lift up your foot from the gas.

Driving but not.

Changing but not.

Running but not.

Young again, but not.

And the source of the fire is soon revealed--the silent choker that pulled your foot from the petal, congests the roadside air, fumes your head and kills your chance.

Drive through the fire!

Yes, you consider it, but you argue you're too old, you shouldn't even be driving anymore, you should return to the wooded cottage. You should warm the water and resubmerge in the bath of your memories.

NOTE: Thank you for reading the first installment in Poetry and Timed Writes!

--KingfisherBirdLady