I try to make a habit of the Sunday whirl and believe me when I say I always have the intention to write and, most Saturdays, even begin the poem at some point. Then get half way and run out of time and, before I know it, it’s Thursday! And then I read thru my fellow whordlers and they all have brilliant whirls up on their blogs.
Must try harder!
Started this whirl yesterday and, while I know it’s not quite October yet, we have been fighting off the sniffles with mega-doses of vitamin C and quite a few of our friends are down with something nasty. It’s the season, isn’t it?
So here is my Sunday whirl for this week and hooray for restful, lazy, rainy Sundays.
ghosts, exact, patches, gathered, worship, spill
unbidden, hillside, where, swarm, edges, sharp
You may worship the romance of early evening walks wrapped up in softest wool sweaters, glancing in windows lit by the golden light of open fires, crunchy leaves gathered in backyard piles, and crisp autumn air, but let me tell you the hardest truths from the softest wools, oh foolish friend.
October has returned. An unwelcomed guest. It’s always wise to count the silver after October visits.
This light-fingered month has a sunny smile that lifts your spirits and makes you think you’re just lightly chilled when you take to your bike one last time and happily coast down the hillside, sends a sizzling slap to your cheeks, and ends with nights that leave you wondering why you bothered to try to sleep in the first place.
The inside of your head swims like the patchy ribbons of an oil spill, where you shiver into your pillow with the low grade fever and scratchy throat that lasts for eternal short, sharp, grey days, punctuating restless ghost-filled, nightmare-plagued darkness as you pile on the blankets.
And if ghosts are made of particles and if they blow like shadows thru the centuries, then so does this dreadful month, that assumes a personality and exacts its toll just to disappear again till next season, when it swarms back into your home, unbidden.
To push you to the edges, like a gaggle of bored housewives complaining about bad manicures in French accents.
(Art: Mixed media collage with acrylic, paper cut-outs, and various pieces from an old computer.)