Write her love letters

so she knows where to look for the sunrise

Envelope her in

clouds of tender kisses

Slight on her skin

Caressing her cheek

as a rose petal

may bruise her blushing

Remind her of your

boundless connection

Demonstrate your love

Being dependent

On her breath for life

I live in baba yagas house

My life presses up against the windows

Threatening to explode into a thousand bits & pieces

It’s like trying to make a call on Christmas morning

Bustling with spells cast with open heart

The truth in wisdom laying down gently is misinformed

Wisdom is furious battles with important happenings

Struggles rectified with triumphant beheadings

I live in Baba Yaggas house poised on her spoon

Forged by the oven’s high heat, taunting foolishness closer

Watching the White, the Red, and the Black

Racing by the windows covered in cobwebs

Resplendent in the tatters of Chronos’ robes

With a sharp sin of her house that dances on chicken legs

I am granted temporary reprieve into the sky clad night

I cast as she taught me and my house is hers

My hearth gives purpose, ruminations of grounds gained

Immersions into dark wisdom refreshingly blessed

Yes, I live in Baba Yaga’s house.

Where nuts & fruits throw themselves to gruesome deaths

Upon samurai paring knives

(Little swords of choppy clops)

I watch carefully for non-existent patterns

That sputter & fizzle like bangers & mash on Easter Sunday

My mom makes sure you don’t forget

She made Colcannon, a traditional Irish dish.

She gave on plastic grass

in lopsided plastic baskets

Reused, named,

Equitably packed

deaf chocolate rabbits that couldn’t poop

Malted milk eggs and waxy sixlets or coins

And a custom gift like Sweet Honesty

in an Avon silver-toned deer

Or the envied Matchbox cars or Hot Wheels

With real opening doors

that tossed imaginary victims

to gruesome imaginary deaths

I live in Baba Yaga’s house

My life presses up against the windows

threatening to explode into a thousand bits & pieces

It’s like trying to complete a call on Christmas morning

I live with Baba Yaga’s siren

All-knowing; All seeing; All brimstone’s gift

I watch attentively for non-existent patterns

Sometimes warp, weft, and weave draw-in

She flashes me what to know

She whispers, “We are sisters.”

She made me bend my knees

As I consider her value against my own worth

I know that together wisdom shall come

It is by my right of birth

The trio of bicycles barreled down the hill

The leader, arms flowing out behind him like a superhero cape

He Whooped and hollered joyously

As he careened bullet speed

Breathlessly gripping handlebars solid rescue

But only when the fear became overwhelming

His second, perhaps best friend,

Chased after the first bike reverently

Reckless, he is not; brave he be

The frightening freedom pulses wildly

From the words of the “safe” straggler:

“Oh my God!” Is Doppler effected

They are clearly exhilarated; shaken (not stirred) like Yahtzee dice

Throwing winds of change behind them

They push the envelope between light and dark

Like when the streetlights come on

When it’s five minutes more stolen: of living fully