I stepped out of my front door this morning to find half of a cracked open Robin egg, and was reminded of my childhood attempt to keep a small abandoned nest of Robin eggs warm on the steps leading to our carport. My son now also has a fascination with bird eggs, Robin's in particular.

There a few more versions of this floating around my mind today. Feeling humble and nostalgic. 

i am sailing
with stars casting
nets across the silken surface
waiting
to see what will float
amongst clouds
rather than waves, i
want both


©Erin Croley

Derived from a memory, years long past. Sometimes bits and pieces float up and swirl around. I'm pretty sure this is true for everyone. If not, maybe it's because of my hyper-reflectivity. Regardless, this poem should eventually be part of my This Passion's History collection.

sprinkler jumping
smoked ribs
good beer
laughter

smiles

love

summer's list grows shorter
as the days lengthen
and I relax

into

me


©Erin Croley

charcoal blends
with grass clippings and
garden dirt
across this page and tub chair
disheveled as always
-smiling-
sketch me as I am

©Erin Croley

I've heard advice about imagining what you want, no matter how small. In some ways, this was one such attempt. It fell into a rhythmic dream, a swirling pattern of cedar smudge smoke rising up around a version of me where past and future mingled. 

I've been asked how to read this poem. As three columns? Across and over? The answer is "yes". I've read it many ways. I think they all work, and each offer something a little different. I'd love to know what you think.

the close of eyelids should
reveal black, but mine
seep grey tints
of the day and desire and

move time

out

of my hands


©Erin Croley

When I moved to Portland, Oregon, I was amazed by the rain that never stormed (and so missed storms eventually), and that houses had shutters solely for decoration. I've seen houses in Missouri that have these now as well, but couldn't get over the initial shock of not being able to close the shutters. After 14 years in Oregon, I understand there really is no purpose for functional shutters there, but seeing them always stirred Missouri memories, brief reflections of my life's journey (so far), and a strange longing for the power of a storm.  I thought the constant winter rain of the Pacific Northwest would be cleansing, or at least refreshing, and in many ways it was, but it never succeeded in fully wiping the slate clean. In some ways I think a Midwestern storm can do that, and even if my house had shutters now (which it doesn't), I'm not sure I'd close them in a storm. Unless, of course, it was a tornado. 

i cannot loathe the morning
even though i crave
the night

maybe in winter
this elusive sleep will catch up
enough for summer


©Erin Croley

my daughter loves salt and light.

give me a dark sleep

and food I can taste.

at two-years-old, she was me.

at five, we are bound to argue

about everything

except chocolate.

I guess that's me, too.


©Erin Croley