Confessions Of A Laundry Goddess

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I Paid With My Heart

November 11, 2010

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Spun into Glory

“In the end, we'll all become stories.” Margaret Atwood Everyone wants to be the flower, not the vase molded from clay and bone. On the dark side of moonless vanity art is assigned to be a stage prop to adorn ego, and not speak the vision of muses. I am a vessel…the curved spin of eye and hand formed from earth and fallen stars…tangible grown from the unseen to be visible. My imperfections are the glory of a thumbprint no one else holds, the flame of a dreamer never extinguished. I am the keeper of life until the blossom succumbs to the wilted rest of a memory. ©Susie Clevenger 2021 The Sunday Muse #164

Dance of Leaf Flames

I dance with the dead, revel in the fallen splashes of color as they haunt the wind. Oak leaves that summer stained blue sky with paint brush leaves of green now fall in cascades of orange and red. Limbs stripped to their wooded bones speak of winter coming to frost night with sparkled shivers of dreams roaming indigo. Caught in swirls of leaf flames I feel my childhood open its door of wonder to memories of the oak cradling my secrets. Standing on sturdy roots I let them feed my spirit the power of resiliency to grow even in a world that seeks to mold me into something other than myself. Dear Oak, you mothered me when I had no voice. Taught me how to bend without breaking, find the song in my tears and find grace when smothered in drought. ©Susie Clevenger 2023 What's Going On? ~ The Tongues of Falling Trees

Youth Never Cared About the Wilting

August falls on us with its itchy wool sweater of dusty days and we wonder if hell laughs at our discomfort. We tire of being a prisoner of a grouchy month that burns color from our garden as if pink was an insult to the brown yarn of dead stems. What irony to have chosen so many years ago this very month to have our wedding, but youth never cared about the wilting, only the dream. Thank goodness August has never been able to sacrifice love to its temper or toss two hearts onto its pyre to burn passion into ash. Oh dear husband we’ve weathered so much, so many Augusts have walked across calendars. Within the shrewish breath of drought we still thrive. Love is a garden that grows even when the gardener’s only tools are boxes of matches. ©Susie Clevenger 2023 My husband, Charlie, has just begun treatment for Multiple Myeloma. Like every August since that first one in 1970 we will walk this August together.

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