winter

There are days I wish I could unfurl my brows;
that the line in between was blurred and straightened and
not so deep.

It’s a cut throat business and I’m terrified of knives.
I bring spoons and spatulas to the table
wanting to smooth the feathers we ruffled and
plant kisses in the soil we spilled.

How can we walk in straight lines with all the
choppiness of the waves crashing into us?
The darkness of blue,
that hour
when our secrets overthrow our consciousness
and we can’t hide from our lines so deeply carved into us.

A cut throat business this is.
Maybe if I show up with feathers,
someone could smooth them with spoons and spatulas and
plant kisses in my soil
while I rest here, just for a little while.