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Three little red and white flags

birthday flags

Waiting

The Dawn Chorus seeps into my consciousness with liquid joy. Night brought sleep, so I open my eyes with a question.

These days play out on a yo-yo string, some are stretched out towards the promise of wholeness; some like this one are curled in on the pain. And waiting an unfocused kind of waiting, between moments that I try not to fritter away. Yesterday comes like that when I wedge myself against the garden wall and paint a long view. And later I watch the birthday flags waving from terracotta pots and take a rain check on chocolate layer-cake.

Days, moments, that leave no memories, just quiet folds in the chronological order of my life. Out on the pleated edges is where the sun shines and creation swirls; and where hope still has a cheeky smile.

I know of no way to acknowledge the value of hours devoted to breathing through pain; no way but waking and living. No way to honour love and life, but living; being; creating.

Sensuous lines swirl
white on white, kissed
by the glass walls
of my house; embraced
by the Nouveau frame.
Day by day, week by week,
I wait
pressed against the glass
while the sun rises
Klimt gold
and a squillion snowflakes
dither and refrost.

Impatient for my
jewelled garden to emerge,
I stuff
armfuls of silken narcissi,
fistfuls  of fake muscari
into the waiting canvas.
Beardsley morphs into Mucha
waiting melts into spring.

Posted by Gini, 22 April 2012

Last modified by Gini, 26 April 2012