that's mrs. mediocrity to you

but that’s not to say
death isn’t final

and the gold ring on my finger
isn’t valuable

or that some days my eyes aren’t
more emerald than olive

i refuse to be bitter
yet sit here
sipping vinegar

singsonging my way
through another day
of valiant questions and

i’m certain i was meant to be a tree
nothing feeds me like sky

birds are my shelter and
i need roots to hold me

still

even as i crave wind in my hair
and words on my skin

crawling clawing genuflecting
on a surface of no definition

bent broken akimbo
lackadaisical limbs

circling stars in a pattern
of pretty

tracing sibilance
with long bony fingers

through the avarice
of dark’s last answer

.

.

.

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where there

is smoke

there is fire

.

but there

could also

be ice

.

you can’t

always tell

the truth

just by looking

.

sometimes

you need

to listen

.

i want to live

in the sky-ceilinged

shadows

.

wood nymph

flower girl

gatherer

.

resisting hope

is hopeless

while

everything grows

amidst decay

.

seeds and leaves

on the floor

of survival

.

i am this tree

that bird

those spiny cones

.

the light

reminds me

of everything

.

water baby
fire girl
the way we fight until
you’ve boiled and i
am smoke and whisper

but that is never
the whole story
this lake is girdled
by fire
warming your center
scorching your shore

and there are times i need
to cool my toes
even as my fingers ruffle
the surface of your silence

we are held together by need
i may rage and you may rise
until we cancel each other out

build a dam and i
will burn you
cross the river
and smother my pride

a forest is built
on ancient couplings
there is no fresh start
blank slate
empty hollow

these seeds were sown
long before we came scrambling
to the surface
birthing tomorrows
blaring tenacity

twins of manifest survival

fueled by oxygen
and undertow

.

.

.

.

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i sat in a chair and watched the world spin down around me

(there was less burning than you’d think)

more potential than performance

i was prisoner and you were gallow

crazy loose turning noose

i did not fight you

(as if I had a choice)

and you had no reinforcement

smoke and ash floated down to earth

in a flurry of forgotten

(burned into my retina)

i could not touch my toes to earth

you offered this stool

that rickety ladder

a steep staircase of crawls

(i never moved)

and you never carried

i sat in a chair and watched the world spin down around me

we mark the passage of
time like it matters

your sand
my glass
our history

none of it can be claimed
owned
held onto

still
you extend
cupped hands
to a clear blue sky

trying to catch
the simple version
of this story

but sand becomes glass
and i see through you

this is the clearing
in the forest of forever

the sun warms my skin
even as it’s magnified

neither one of us
wants to burn

yet we lie here
singing songs
of ritual
and habit

until we’re buried
grain by grain

side by side

.

.

.

.

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when you can laugh at your own insignificance
then you begin to understand

the world turns and you turn with it
we are all cogs and we are all stars

it was never your job to be a beautiful flower
but always your promise to set seed

the future is a rhyme you cannot hear
written from the way you stand today

refuse to cower
refuse to break
refuse to be defined

the sky is the mirror of forgiveness
there is no reflection and no
perfect light

you can grow in the darkest of corners
stretch yourself out
be alive in the paradox of possible

the wind will take you
or you will melt back into
earth’s wide open arms

the rain will cleanse you
not of your sins
but at least of the dust you carry

the sun will burn you
and the moon will steal pain
from the beauty of your wounds

tomorrow is only an idea

and you’ve already had plenty
of those

hang on
hang on

let go

the release
will be

your nirvana

your white knuckles
have always
been bone

.

.

.

.

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i stand here wondering

(wandering)

about now and the clarity
of a chrysanthemum

grounded and brimming with growth

what it would be like to live so simply

sun water soil
and perhaps wind
to worry about

and those creepy things that eat at you
leaving holes to let the air whistle through

i have no answers

(pondering)

but i am just as fine with that
as the clove scented rose

clinging to a vine no one wants to climb

growing hips (ha!) for fuel and tea

so much stronger than the
colored bits of beauty
you sniff around

thorn and cane build bud and blossom
roots wrap fingers around earth’s core

i stand here

(wondering)

i hold this day like a jewel in my palm
knowing soon enough
my gypsy soul will be trapped inside
with fire

this morning there was rain
pulling moisture from the air
in a long grey exhale

everything is damp

and i sit here weaving
magenta colored bracelets

while you dance above my head
with your promise

kiss me over the garden gate

i would, if i could reach
the beauty in your title

instead i sit at your feet
and water you with gratitude

the sky feeds me
and i am always hungry

you know this and still,

you bend slowly
touch your lips to mine

somewhere high above
i see a cloud
shaped like winter

the cat drops a cardinal
at my feet

forcing me to remove it
or watch him eat

all the while
in my arms

i carry
your bouquet

.

.

.

.

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p.s. the flower in the photo really is named kiss me over the garden gate

the waltz of time has fewer ripples
than the calamity of youth

there is much to remember
and little to miss

except the key to everything
and even then, it’s nice to know
that one exists

i have a dancing map,
you know, the kind that shows
where to place your feet

two pair speckled across the page
in a sneeze of pattern
meaning nothing without music

i’m always so busy listening
i forget to follow directions
until i am left alone, arms flailing
on the opposite side of the room

this is the dance i was born to do
not the wallflower so much as the floor
each step you take leaves an imprint
and each night i crack the code
of your travels

i could follow you then
find my way home or at least
back to bed

but i have bells on my ankles
and this tattered ancient skirt
and the moon plays an old piano song
with her broken, bony fingers

i am night and you are shadow
turn and spin
turn and spin

i need the light of stars
upon my skin

.

.

.

.

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