I suddenly want to dance, reinvented in a golden wave of poppies under an indigo sky. I want to wear big Victorian hats with too many ribbons and flowers while I stroll through a greenhouse, breathing in the heavy scent of jasmine while my hand rests elegantly on a parasol. I'm Mita, the little poet with a pixie face-- nobody can help but love me. And then the solemn white face in the mirror is Camille's, framed by her heavy braids that have grown long as the years have fallen away from her.

No, no, not tonight. Not when the moon glimmers, a fringe of allure peeking out from whisps of sheltering cloud. Not when there is so much beauty in the world that I don't need to make any of my own.

Aphrodite stands awash/
In marble sensuality by a (local) art museum.
and wine shines dully:: unpolished ruby in a little glass.
Sand-- rise smoothly in spiraled dunes.

I smile and kiss my hands for a still-waiting lover.

I wear pearled laurel in my eyes,
I write letters like lace crochted across the glass.
/Candy sticks in twisted glory/
Hold, dearest, hold for me to come.
Wildflowers grow sweetly,
Taste like honey.

Poetry spills out of me like bubbling laughter, water rushing in white sprays over purple rocks.

"I'm going to go write," I said, and fell through a dreamcatcher into tomorrow.

Love isn't poetry, but I don't really mind
Because we catch ourselves falling through the cracks in time
Watch my fingers fly
Weaving adeptly, telling truths, telling lies.
I guess it doesn't matter
We all fall, rarely shatter
I believe in crystal webs of grace
Watching over your sweet face.

The music plays on, but how I dream.
Running from hope,
Play me a scream--
On a harp,
Sweet tones of butterfly cakes,
I'm not afraid.
Of what you bring.

I cleaned my closet after work today, ostenibly to organize all my old t-shirts, but really to gloat over my winter clothes.

There are three essential components to any decent winter ensemble. Hats, bags, and sweaters. Especially sweaters. I've never understood the joy of three patent sparkling pairs of shoes, but hearing the rustle of tissue paper against a brand new cardigan-- that is real joy. After rummaging through the sale catalogue for glorious bargains (whoever said scrimping money wasn't delightful?) I found a handknit autumn cardigan, pale sage with chenille trim that danced with embroidered leaves. It's the sort of earthy colour I ought to wear, that brings out the auburn tints in golden-brown braids. With a little bit of blush and a pair of proper college earrings, I ought to be satisfied with my appearance. It's the memories, you see, that are wrapped up in those twists of wool and cotton.

Last winter, a group of us piled into the the florescent lit cars of public transit to see the Christmas lights up at Temple Square. Twas a time of many hugs and tears, the sort that seems just a little too sentimental when you glance back at the tale, but at the moment, was absolutely beautiful. As we huddled together beneath the pale light of the nativity, singing Christmas carols, I glanced over at Rachel and gave her gloved hand a squeeze. I knew that my boutique-perfect appearance of beret and peacoat had been ruined by the softly falling snow as much as my face was drained by tears, but at the sight of her smile, it didn't matter.

I've always loved sweaters, how you can wrap yourself up in them and just breathe in the scents that linger about them. I've cried into them more times than I can remember. It was always a comfort, to hold it close to me and sob. More than a pillow, almost like a shoulder. When I was simply worn from days in high school, I would put on a jacket and fold my arms so my head and heart could rest.

Only I could wax poetic on a sweater. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's rather cold in my basement room and I'd like to find my blue knit cotton one.

New template, new counter, new comment system (old comments deleted, sorry loves) and will come up with a new entry either later this morning or this evening. I've got to get ready for work, so I'll leave you with lots of Anakin/Padme images to sigh/smile at.