In the morning,
I am always part bird.
Ready to fly
and hungry for adventure,
lightweight
and grateful for dawn.
I live in a heart filled with song.
The sky is a playground
of minutes,
ticking off wingbeat and
leaf warbled landing.
A canvas of sunset,
undrawn.
.
.
.
thirteen years later
that’s what we call it
not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven
two words
three digits
two towers
four planes
thousands
of
mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends
not statistics
falling
from
the
sky
not dates
or where were you’s
just whole hearts
in odd numbers
each one
the only necessary
evidence
of love
::
.
.
I went outside last night at dusk and the grass was already covered in dew and it took me right back to my childhood, when I was always barefoot. There was a strip of red sitting on the horizon, a perfect half moon just clearing the trees, and I walked to the end of my driveway to look out across the fields.
I love living in farm country, love this spot on this hill, love the “sheltering sky” that defines my world.
It was a very busy day in a very busy week, and I’d barely looked up from the work at hand all day. And today will be the same. But I had that moment, out looking for my naughty kitten, when life caught my eye.
Funny how easy it is to forget to notice. And how simple it is to remember.
I just had to look up.
There is food growing all around me. Stars peeking out from behind day’s curtain. Eternity stretching out above me as a grasshopper jumps into my path.
The cat was nowhere to be seen, but I knew he was watching. He wasn’t ready to go inside yet and I couldn’t blame him.
He knows exactly how to live.
if i could walk away from the answers
my footprints would fill with more questions
i am held in place by the harpooned taproot
of my own bark-coated existence
but the leaves i toss into the wind
have every right to fly
the ground you walk on is made from the crust
of today’s leftover uncertainty
nothing is real but faith and
i believe in the sun
burning through my temporary cloak
winter is meant to reveal what we’re made of
and you think
it should be more complicated
forever is time’s long lost daughter
singing to the sailor of finite
what you see is only an echo
.
.
.
the water keeps fighting to get in
and i am out of buckets
not learning how to swim
feels like a mistake
now
too late for fixing
and too soon for proving
but already my feet are wet
and the water falls down the steps
with a lion-headed roar
the other day you brought sand bags
built me a fence
to keep the outside out
and the inside in
and that was love
these four walls
are my haven and my prison
and i paint them all pretty
coat them with pictures
but i’m always staring
out the windows
at the empty places
in the sky moon harbor
my hope sloshes home from
it’s cloudy today and the grey
washes in
floating past my knees
in a ribbon of revelation
on its way to almost forgotten
the hummingbird at my window
flies right through the rain
her wings turned to jewels
by habit
and the hollow fueled echo
of hunger
.
.
.
I am listening to silence (which is never quiet), I am listening to summer (pretending to be fall), I am listening to flowers bloom (a whispered symphony).
The sound of bare feet on wood floors, old floors, the kind that have enough character to creak.
Bird song that creeps beneath closed windows, a tea kettle whistling loudly, the hushed rush of clouds rolling by.
Everyone has all the answers.
I cover my ears, preferring my unwisdom, my empty bowl of questions. There are things I enjoy not knowing.
Where the tree frog sleeps at night. If dew is enough to quench a flower’s thirst. Why a book can break my heart, and still, I’ll keep reading.
The truth is, none of it matters. The truth is, my truth is always going to be different than yours, because universal doesn’t mean we have the same eyes. There are no perfect gardens. The all have bugs, unless you kill them with chemicals, and then that’s just a synthetic version of paradise.
By this time of year, it’s hard to find a plant in my garden that has no evidence of damage. Holes chewed by slugs, or grasshoppers, blooms made small and weak by pests that suck the life from their stems, leaves yellowed by lack of nutrient. This is life and we call it less than perfect, not-so-pretty.
We look away.
I use scissors to cut out the worst of the leaves, the dried brown blooms gone to seed.
Afterwards, I think the plants look awkward, fake, lopsided. They were happy to show us their bounty, their scars, their proof of life. Happy to be riddled with this evidence of time.
Life always makes its mark on you. If perfect is the only beauty you can see, you’ll always miss the map of scars leading you back to your heart.
I am listening to silence (which is never quiet). I hold out my wrinkled hand and brush dirt from yesterday’s cheek.
I am dirty, I am tattered, I am smiling.
And my lips are stained by berries.
.
mother nature invented fireworks
.
love is everywhere i turn
.
outrage makes me tired
.
reading keeps me sane
.
writing keeps me whole
.
my garden keeps me centered
.
fireflies at midnight are still magic
.
every sunrise is a page in the book of possibility
.
every sunset is a sentence in your story
.
whispering poplars sing the best lullabyes
.
birdsong is the symphony of life
.
.
.
.
.
the bells of time
are always ringing
in the garden
of possibility
.
whether you hear
music or
cacophony
depends
on the rhythm
of your heart
.
.
.
.
