I've only been working
barely a month,
but I already want a break.
Good thing this is France
so I'll start the new month with one.

Zutara Month day 23 - Colors

Blue is tinged with sadness.
It’s long nights hiding grief in tradition,
unable to sleep,
wanting something better than insomnia
and a feeling of deep loss.

Red is violence,
a scar dashed across young skin-
Red is a burn,
a rash,
flaring hot-
and it’s tears of anger
rolling down a betrayed face.

But blue is also calm-
the sky on a clear day,
the mountains standing strong in the distance,
her eyes smiling.
It’s the peace and hush of winter
curled up with the one you love.

Red is also passion,
love dancing across the sky in fireworks
and dances that leave the heart racing,
and the color of their sheets.
It’s a summer sunset on a beach
and the mixed drinks by their side.

And no matter when or where
these two lovers go,
they take these colors with them.

Zutara Day 22 - Warmth

Warmth is his hands,
Strong, stretched out,
reaching for her waist,
for someone to save,
for the stars.

Warmth is her smile,
Bright, spread out,
grinning for laughter,
for the hunt,
for victory.

Warmth is the lines between them
blurred,
crossed out,
unwritten
until you’re not sure
where one begins and ends.

Warmth is his heart
Still beating under ribs
that have seen lightning-

Warmth is her hands
reaching to comfort,
to save,
to steal back life from death.

Bright is their future,
and together,
it is full of warmth.

Zutara Month Day 20 - Electric Love

A breath-
lungs catch-
a sigh-

eyes meet
and the Earth moves-
it turns and spins as always
but this bit’s special,
different,
and nothing will be the same.

Their hands recoil instinctively,
flex,
stretch,
reach,
touch-

light a thousand candles
with the brilliance of their smile.

I believe I know why my poetry has slipped away-
it's a many pronged reason,
but I've been turning to prose
more and more,
using the descriptive tone I've crafted
to weave stories
around other's characters.
This isn't a problem,
per se,
but I'll have to remember to come back
and feed the poetic muse
who still watches me
with too-lovely eyes
even if she's holding her tongue.

Classes start again,
and I'm followed by the knowledge
that for the first time
I have missed my goal.

I have steadily written more poems each year,
by differing margins,
and I'm sad that last year,
the year with such change and emotional upheaval
should be the year I falter.

What will happen the calm years?
Will there be calm years?
Perhaps I should stretch my poetic muscles,
take up a new theme
or device to practice
for when my life is contentment
not frantic anxiety.

Sick and sad,
n'aime pas,
wrapped in a blanket
alone on my couch,
New Year rung in alone,
my love a thousand miles away.