Therapy.

 

Spring break

offered hours and hours

of unscheduled time

for projects in process

presently focused

on the forthcoming

critter-theme show

at a favorite

grooming shop.

 

While their business

revolves primarily

around dogs

and I'm working on

doggy pieces

today my mind is on my cat

who ate my bird this week

and is sitting

highly precariously

on the cliff of my heart.

You might say she is

balancing there

in a most miraculous way.

 

I loved that little bird.

I cried when I found

the little clump

of yellow feathers

one skinny leg

and a teeny tiny

beak

on

the dining room floor.

 

Of course

Chuck

guardian of my bedside nights

is not talking.

 

 

I get it. He's no snitch.

So I'm just

choosing

to move on.

 

 

Color and getting messy

always helps me feel better.

Throwing around

materials

and slopping them

with glue

and paint

and momentary

odd choices

in media

is more than my

chosen form of

therapy.

 

It's the only therapy that works for me

dialing my soul back

to a happy place

and reminding me

it's all about the moment.

 

Not yesterday.

Not tomorrow.

The moment. 

 

 

Works in progress.

You'll notice

maybe

some spaces

still drying.

 

Over my little

break yogurt

I'm smiling

maybe actually

laughing a bit

at how much

I think my mom

would like

the colors

and the use of her fabric

and the reckless abandon

with which

I've buried

her neatly-appointed

sort of French-country

living room

in

creative debris.

And I'm feeling better.
Not perfect.
And I honestly
really
truly
don't like this cat.

But I'm better.