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Sunday, February 23, 2014

A Growing Thing

I am a growing thing.

Atoms and molecules and cells and mitochondria

proliferate even as they die.

Cells multiply, multiply,

divide, divide,

and matter does not die

but simply changes form to energy

so nothing is lost

for even that which dies—

or seems to die—

is simply changing form

becoming light,

which is to say the energy of the Universe.


I am a growing thing

and grow I will, like any tree,

expanding and cracking the bark of my skin

while inside the sap runs,

slowly, swiftly, powerfully,

from the tips of my spreading roots

to the tiny ends of my reaching branches.


I am a growing thing

until the moment

when my matter

no longer matters

and I join the energy of the Void.



Copyright 2014 Ann Tudor

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Early Morning Moon

I stand by the bedroom window

this morning, pulling on a sweater,

expecting nothing

because seldom do I see

at 6:36

the Moon in any guise

so imagine my surprise

when there she lies

above the neighbour's leafing oak.


A tiny thing today.

A sliver on the way to nothing,

a not-silver sliver

that rose late

and has traversed hardly half the sky

by this morning hour.


The tardy sliver's stark curve--

precise, clear-cut—

pulls me to it.

Nonetheless, being human

and in a hurry

I turn away to find a sock, a shoe—

a moment only, I promise you—

and when I return to fill my eyes again

with pale gold curve carved into my sky

she is gone.

Morning has obliterated, for now,

the one thing sweet enough

to awaken my heart today.


Copyright 2014 Ann Tudor

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Along the Lifeline's Crease

My lifeline's crease is deeper now than long.

How long is a lifeline?

How high is the sky?


Forget the length. This lifeline's deep,

its chasm's walls lined with

gatherings of silk in colours

made from insect bodies, ground minerals,

flowers dried and crumbled.

The silks float free and flutter,

rainbows that glow in all weathers.


The rim of the chasm's walls

displays an endless line of portraits—

gnarled, wrinkled, smooth:

people of the earth, and each one beautiful.


The floor of my lifeline's canyon

gleams malachite in marbled green

bearing the feet of passing royalty.


My lifeline is deeper now than long.

But I would not trade its riches

for any increased length.



Copyright 2014 Ann Tudor








Ann Tudor

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Preparing for Winter

My fingers go numb with October's first frost.

Where is life?

Why does my blood not flow

from heart to fingertips?

A long distance, to be sure, but still.


Isn't that how it usually works?


Well, I can kvetch all winter long

and it won't warm up my hands.

I need a new solution.


Movement, for example.

Jumping jacks.

I'll leap from the chair and bounce!

Or remain seated and flex the fingers

as I make a heart connection


I will live in my opening heart

and send live wires of sensed energy

coursing along the lines and pathways

of my body's ocean.


Or else, to bring a little warmth to my hands,

I'll steal it from my partner's heated back.

He'll never miss it,

with that fiery furnace burning in his chest.

I rest my hands, fingers spread,

on his hot skin

until his heat becomes my own.



Copyright 2014 Ann Tudor