In the summertime, I bake

a gingerbread man with a bow tie.

His smile is far too bright and wide,

with three eyes by mistake.

My gingerbread is out of season,

made far after the holidays.

He’s out of hand and out of date,

a Frankenstein without good reason.

Exposed to the warm sun by his creator, 

his gooey smile melts to a scowl,

an icing expression turned most foul;

I can’t control the weather.

My crispy treat is out of season,

near and dear to me when he was made

and in the pits of my stomach left to fade,

condemned to this fate without good reason.

warm yellow buttercups in a field of green

sparking fires in a hearth, in a home

the beginning of a city, of an odyssey

or of something lasting and immortal

it is the source of a powerful river,

the first pale rays at brightening dawn.

it is you and i, friend, during those

first few days of fireside life

when mind reached out to mind,

When I stood up by the riverbank,

the world shifted around me.

The water had moved on from here

and would not be returning,

witnessed by my eyes alone, 

flowing ever-slow and ongoing.

No wind brings whispers of love and beauty--

my own shivers in the cold are all that move me.

I’m going ghost in the midnight hours,

a new-born vampire when I look in the mirror.

I sit with faceless fuzzy creatures and a can of fizzy water,

having a name and face and being someone’s daughter,

in good company through this blanching night--

a place to be and sit awhile, to make myself alright.

I don’t want to chop my hair off;

I don’t want to sweep the floor.

Years-old strategies for fixing me

aren’t fitting anymore.

Find a new job and new wardrobe

to suit up my older self.

Grow my hair out. Make new friends.

Light a candle. Make a mess.

When I whittled myself down for weeks,

who but I should wield the broom

to brush away the parts I’ve shed

and build myself anew?