February 3, 2016

My promise is to write every day.
But here it is, mid-morning and I am scrambling to do the basics
 before I head out. This also includes doing homework for Spanish II through
CPCC at the Myers Park High School campus in the evenings,
Wednesday 7-9 p.m. Today is Wednesday.
 I took longer doing the work because it drew me in.
Some of the attraction is another language,
 romantic one at that, and the different words play with the mind.
My mind drifts a bit with a small coupling like “media noches, es media noches.” The day the era ends, the media noches, the midnight,
 half day, half night, sliced- apart- yesterday-today,
 tomorrow and last week. The trace is gone. The grueling upheaval in Matthews on Fullwood
 torments my spirit. I keep driving through it, back and forth.

 And I can hear the chanting in deep cells
 in the crevices of my brain, memory.Footsteps heal to the smooth grade of erasure,
another corner lost to the future, the hour,
 the meaning of this, what is lost, what is found,
what becomes and what has gone.
 Traces of earth moving machines,
our whole history, dirt turns, gone the burrow,
 gone the blind, down the nest, crushed the eggs,
 smashed the snakes, gone the frogs,
 the turtles, the worms, the beetles, the seeds,
 the babes, the old, gone.
The largest, oldest trees, sprawling limbs and huge branches
 bore the leaves that sheltered cows and chickens,
supported clothes lines and fresh smelling laundry,
provided circles for children to play around, swings to fly,
lovers to kiss, and olden, wood to burn for winters night.
Gone. So much of our village gone.I am here to see it go, feel the change and maybe follow
 before my heart breaks
 or I clang my sword and hammer type
 to print to sing the song Media Noches.