anniversary ironing meditation

a hearth
within me flickers
its warm wings like
some butterfly of
yellow love polka
dots
on a lavender twilight
sky.

the iron hisses
over shirts, one
two
three.

eyes squint out
the creases;
a finger still throbs
from yesterday's cricket
under the sun;
ears make a symphony
of cacophany - cars
hum waves outside,
lou armstrong drones from
the bedroom and the clouds
forget fingers of rain that now
tap a piano ballad
outside;
tastebuds still lie in a dreamworld
after a romance with
a steamboat;
nostrils breathe in
freshly ironed cotton,
and as feet realise that
carpet fibres can
sing, hands move
like an artist's,
banishing crease after
crease from
this moment.

this must be
what they call

love.

this must be
what they call

bliss.

it has been three
hundred and sixty
five days
of
pure
wonder.


thank
you
j.

this is it

carefully
i
unhinge the day's
shrapnel
off
my body
and arrange it before
me.
it takes the shape of
a phoenix. its wings beat
in my ears.
breathe
now -
this
is it!
the moon a face
peering through the window,
the highway an ocean outside,
its tides humming.
a cat's eyes flash
red in some
headlight,
remnants of morning's perfume
linger in my room
- this is
it
- now!
i burn in the fire of the present.
a new bird
taps through a crack
in the ashes.