Mes Excuses

Pour mes amis qui parlent français:

Mes Excuses, Chers Abonnés, j’ai été absent pendant un certain temps. Pas vous oublié par tous les moyens; étouffement simplement, à bout de souffle, j’examen des options, volant au-dessus, danser sur la tête d’une épingle. Je besoin de temps pour explorer, réaliser, puzzle à travers. Je m’étonne encore à chaque jour, tenter de maîtriser le matin, réparer mon âme et mon iPad, comprendre mon chien. Mon temps n’a pas été votre temps. Où? Considérez ceci: que je me renouvelle, donc allez-vous profiter. Mon travail n’a pas cessé, mais plutôt augmenté. Plus de poèmes pour la vie. Et la mort. Ou tout autre sentiment ou de l’humeur qui frappe dans le cours de ma journée … mais surtout le matin. Le premier soleil du matin est le mieux pour mon cerveau, en dépit du manque d’air ou de sommeil. Un nouveau livre est à l horizon. Je le remplis avec moi-même. Aucun titre fixé encore. Restez à l’écoute.

(Grace à mon ami Mustapha pour la traduction.)

Buzz

A familiar buzz creates the strange backdrop of my kitchen, and my world. The sound of distress is repeated often in my head, but now it lives. I cannot locate the source. It continues to fill the cool air of an October morning. Where is he? I heard him in pain, buzzing so loudly that I must listen. He wants my attention as he cries for help.

I wait. I must be dreaming, my head repeats. He is gone. He no longer lives on this Earth. But then again, I want to think otherwise. I want to believe the signs that he flew my way six years past. The flutter of his wings upon my cheek. His flight was soft and gentle, aiming for me, for my face. Certain it was he, I broke into laughter. No disrespect, my love, but your wings tickled my nose. Made me smile. I knew it was you, free from pain.

So why now? Why this distress call to me? I look in every room as the sound grows in voice. That buzz remains. I cannot find you. Searching every fold of the house in which I call my home, but not really home since you are not here. Or are you? They tell me I am mad. La Femme Folle. But ’tis only folly, I know. I believe you, mon cher ami. Mon amant, mon amour. I believe you.

And there you are. Upside down, with your tiny wiggling legs. There you are wedged between the bends of a blue kitchen towel. You buzz with vigor, waiting to be freed. Who said a fly should be let free? You chose to be there, mon ami. You wanted to fly, so I let you free. Fly away now, safe to the outside air. Come alive. Don’t die. Keep flying. I love you.

–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2016