Happy Sunday, folks! I feel my writing muscles wanting a good workout lately, and have been wanting to share some thoughts in this space, but alas, I have been feeling a bit under the weather this week, so have begrudgingly traded intense typing for herbal tea as I hopefully feel better soon.

In the meantime, I have been meaning to share a video of me reading this poem, Granary Burying Ground, from my Wild Unfolding ​collection. It seemed perfect for October, and I truly hope it adds some warmth to your evening!

A huge (and belated) thank you to all of the wonderful people who organized and attended the first annual Authors & Artists Autumnfest at Unity Somerville earlier this month! It was quite an exciting event for me; I got to visit with some family and friends who came by to support me during the event, met some very talented local artists and authors who were also participating in the festival, and had the pleasure of meeting many new people who stopped by at my table to talk poetry, creativity, and local arts.

If you were one of these wonderful folks who stopped by to chat or to purchase my books, THANK YOU SO MUCH! I truly appreciate the support, and have spent the last two weeks since the event absolutely tickled that my words are out there in the world with readers. My ten year old self who scribbled poetry in her tiny flowered notebook is especially stunned and delighted!

If you are considering checking out my poetry collections or book of essays on creativity and didn't get a chance to come to the event, you can find copies of Wild Unfolding and New Bird here, and The Perpetual Visitor: A Field Guide for Everyday Artists here. As always, you can reach out to me if you would like to order a signed copy for yourself or someone you love who loves poetry or has a creative practice. And if you did purchase a book at any time in the past, and are willing to leave me a review on Amazon, I would be truly grateful!

I am absolutely delighted to share with you that my newest collection of poetry, New Bird, is now available for purchase, in time for the start of a much needed spring: https://www.amazon.com/New-Bird-Melissa.../dp/B09TY95XZ9

These days have been dark and hard, and though it feels a bit strange to promote something personal at the present time, my hope is that it brightens your spirits some and gives you an opportunity to seek tiny bits of beauty in your own day.

In the coming days and weeks, I will sharing more information about a few New Bird related events I'll be doing, virtual and real life (a virtual poetry reading? poems hidden around Boston? a giveaway?), so stay tuned. And if you do get a copy of the collection, send me a note and let me know what your favorite poem is or how they are resonating with you. I'd absolutely love to hear.

The title poem, New Bird, is below. Take good care of yourselves and each other, Friends!

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New Bird

Just when I am ready to slip under
and
surrender to the slings and arrows,
knowing I’ve seen enough
certain that I can’t face another midnight,
some small speck of a spark
alights
and burns my skin
and lets me know that I am still here.
A cosmic match that begs me
to doubt the despair,
to wonder about my faith,
to entertain
the hope that there might be more to glimpse
in all the tomorrows I fear.
Oh God, please let there be more.

After almost four decades of familiar wings,
I might just come to the gate of Frances’ garden,
her century old roses wrapping me
in blushing pinks and reds,
their cool petals and sunrise scents
calling me back home
to this place that I’m meeting for the very first time,
like an old friend.
As the noon sun glows in greeting,
I just might see a new bird
perched on the worn, warm, red brick wall,
its feathers unfamiliar,
its song strange and silky,
its colors not known to my heart,
and
its glassy eye fixed on mine,
an invitation to stay.
I may just know what it was I was kept for.
Oh God, I hope it happens.

I might be meant to cross an ocean
for just this moment:
to see, to sense, to know
that there are still slices of world I’ve yet to
look upon, to love.
I’ve begun collecting scraps of what is, scratchy and wilted,
from which to build a nest of what could be, wild and strong.
Someday, perhaps, this unexpected raft might agree to
bear me over the white foam sea
and I will stand rooted like an oak
barefoot in the green grasses,
beneath a warm sky,
breathing easy,
with
forty thousand new birds to meet.