Melting Spot
Melting Spot
Dec. 4
He calls it bottomland on its side
It has sweet spots where rabbits hide.
The cows come there to birth their calves.
I go there to analyze my halves.
Every single day I throw open the shade.
My psychological test reborn, remade.
So, Mr. Rohrschach,
What’s the meaning this morning?
Is it a group of tracks,
or a subtle warning?
By some form of fallen water,
like the patterns they had taught her,
whether frozen, solid or not,
there always was that melting spot.
Dec. 15
Today it is in the shape of a boot.
Travel? New footwear?
Confusion made suit.
Study on Italy,
or is that point moot?
Dec 20
Looked out the window,
this did not sadden,
It morphed to a lamp
much like Aladdin’s.
I tried to make three wishes,
while gluing broken dishes.
Later it changed to an elephant,
Now how in the world
is that relevant?
Dec 29
On Thursday it was a flying zebra.
I chalked that up to creative Libra.
Time to go to bed, to close the shades.
Scoop up the pieces and make lemonade.
Another meaning I will never find.
There're always knots you can’t unwind.
Jan. 13
One day, I swear,
saw a tennis racket.
Erasing memory,
I went out and whacked it.
Not moving forward
into the mystery.
I’m stuck in the past,
repeat history.
Jan. 19
Maybe that spot is where the angel’s pee.
Do you always believe in what you see?
Jan. 29
During a nasty storm,
the melting spot reformed,
into a marvelous spiral.
Sleepless, I had no clue,
everyone had the flu,
all of my thoughts had gone viral.
Speaking of spirals…
The day before last we saw a 3-D model of DNA at a Science Museum.
When you look at art, are you looking at the DNA of the soul?
Feb. 6
In a blizzard, when the snow is wind-tossed,
You better be alert and don’t get lost.
All’s white, it’s alright,
you’ll just fall asleep.
Missing tracks, no way back,
Rope’s a thing to keep.
Mar. 3
Hold on to the past,
cast out for the future,
all while maintaining the now.
The stretched out connection
from all three directions,
easy as birthing a cow.
During the tug-o-war
’tween There and Then.
dropped them for Now,
The melting spot again.
Mar. 11
If I could alter the shape,
If I could throw out a bucket,
If I could have reached a grape,
I surely would have plucked it.
Mar. 13
On Tuesday, when I opened the door and ventured out to feed the
animals, I looked over at the hill. Clean. Smooth. Crisp. Shaven. No
melting spot. No psyche-safe haven. And when Friday came, the melting
spot still had no name. Maybe I was to blame for damping my own flame.
Looking outside, when I could’ve looked within. The melting spot’s not
only under my nose; it’s under my toes. It’s the puddle I am in.
So draw the shade.
You’ll find it’s true.
No one else can read
you but you.
Mar. 18
There are no secrets in the snow
And yet all is hidden.