there is gold and there is freedom
you say neither one
matters
in the grand scheme
of things
our hands are always left empty
i mention the scars
of experience
the stars
whisper something
of the moon
the way the sun
is always in your eyes
paper crinkled
and satisfied
or beckoning
i’m not sure which
.
.
.
just ask nature, she’ll be happy to let you know
that dance was invented by willows
weeping at winter’s impostor
and stars are made from moans left hanging
on a breeze in the corner of reflection
.
we are all mirrors on the same wall of eternity
chanting hope and charity with leavening
.
this circle this tree this mind mattering
tossed by cold gale and rent from warm earth
growth and decimation occur concurrently
it doesn’t matter where you stand
it doesn’t matter where you stand
.
darkness always returns
as does mo(u)rning
.
.
.
.
snow falls gently through a sky bleeding sunshine
through the closed door i hear geese
warming their way through a morning
most of them will survive
i cling to small things. moments, really
and wish i could gift them to you
i know a whole list of people with that name
the miracles gather and hover
hoping to land, gently
winter is coaxing autumn to bed
with an ever-changing quilt
of cozy promises
a patch of blue peeks through worn cotton batting
needs no mending
.
.
.
which is not the same as the kitchen sink
because that would mean everything,
and this is just a window.
and just now, there is too much everything,
everywhere,
every minute.
i want clear blue sky and calm cool morning.
but it’s autumn and the colors are raucous
and speaking of raucous,
i’m missing those crazy-loud geese parties
down at the swamp
that aren’t happening this year
because there’s no swamp.
and i’m not writing because there are no words.
so i wait.
and winter will come and i will miss all this color
and wish for things I don’t have
the same way as today
and that bird in the tree,
that bluejay who spends his days
as a beautiful bully
and the monkshood just starting to bloom,
in amidst all the kisses that need cutting down
and this could all be metaphor
for so many things,
but it’s not, it’s all true,
right outside
this tiny kitchen in
this tiny house
this tiny life
half-invisible
portal.
.
.
.
.
on a small lake in maine
i found the color of departure
.
.
.
.
.
the wind tells tales of emptiness
littering wide roads with leaves just released
from the captivity of decent living
beneath a sky gone grey with culture
an empty swamp sags with the pattern of destruction
heron filled and heron full on rotting fish and
stain stitched opportunity
and all the green has rolled inward, hoping for storm
or honest anger
finding nothing but dry heat hot
from the memory of august
balanced on the razor of reduction
the sun sinks red and rises false rose golden
as blinding answers dive
into the dusty hardheart crevasse of question
playing host to this catalog of possibility
while the distant beauty vulture
screams his mocking two-faced litany
of violent regeneration
.
.
.
there is this heat you wear like a blanket
there is this weight you carry in a pocket made from penance
there is silence in the mist of white noise
there is sanctuary
hidden
.
.
.
and you wear them on your heart
like a badge or a pin
or a reminder to remember
you expose them
to the elements
harden them off
rub them raw
until they weave
their own shield of shadow
and eventually
stop hurting
when they’re touched
.
.
.
my breath caught in the net of my throat
and the dance of a butterfly
held my tongue
and there was nothing to say except
wish you were here
and no camera
can take a photo as real
as my heart
pounding
or the taste of adrenaline in my
never-better peanut butter sandwich
or the way i couldn’t move
for fear my body would take wing
or the truth of never wanting
to come down
.
.
.
digging deep through poisoned soil
seeking hope or refuge or both
and the flower opens
and we think pretty
but it’s all
just a matter
of survival
“this is not really happening—
you bet your life it is”*
hang your head
nod hello
run
stand your ground
i can’t remember
i can’t remember
your name
is
silence
or alice
or delilah
i can’t remember
and all you ever wanted
was bloom
.
.
.
