We watched and it wasn’t a movie and
none of us could leave.
Something was lost.
Alone is a mistake made early
but not one we’re doomed
to wake into each day…
Like mountains
driven up,
eroded,
every day we rise
and fall back down…
It’s easy to love life
under blue sky,
arms thrown wide to the weather;
sun shining, highlighting
life’s soft curves….
You’ve been here before
but facing the road
doesn’t mean
you have to rewalk it…
Be not silent.
Do not sideline yourself
to the imagined power of another.
It is the air itself
that saves us.
Night’s cool cover, a cloth
on our burning face…
Just as I felt faeries 30 years ago, I can feel this tree's life. I see what she protects, and how she anchors the garden…
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Flat on the bed
I see the hawk fly by
fingers of her thick wings spread
like my own, splayed and spent
From above, roads are stark straight lines. Land undulates but the roads cut clear across, slicing open hills and paving across water. What the land does is irrelevant to the road.
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It’s not that we’re abandoned,
but that we demand delight
at every turn.
We can only stay sated so long…
I wake to find
a silver bar of moon
has slipped between the curtains
to scan me…
Someone knows these answers.
Someone loves this beach
and is known by it
for the press of their foot,
for the skin the sand sloughs off
and mixes with its own.
Every creative work holds up the turned-inside-out heart of its maker for all to see.
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I go to the earth,
to ground,
to lay down,
place down
all the things I cannot carry.
When I stitch, I know what I am doing. I know where the lines are going. There is a map, and I’m following it.
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I gather fallen limbs,
handle lichened bones
with reverence,
returning them
to the base of their tree.
These are temporary lines I’m putting down. This map is a slow motion snapshot…
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