.
the unspoken syllable that catches in your throat
.
the kite caught in the high bird branches of a tree
.
the smile that plays across your lips on a thought kept silent
.
the reflection of a life in another broken mirror
.
the leaf that never made its way to freedom
.
apparently i’ve forgotten
how to be offended on my own
i need instructions
reinforcements
coaching and
missives, shouts and apoplectic
derision
to come to the conclusion
that everything you say
or do
or think is wrong
even when it is
i wander these streets
lost but not wanting
to be found
listening
shhhh
listen
here
i can hear
myself think
remember thinking
back before it was
all done out
loud
and i’m craving grey
with its less than stark
observations
something soft and not
at all cataclysmic
to rest my head on
for just
one minute
.
.
.
equality is not the same as experience
and it makes me wonder if
all the first times
have to add up
to the same number
as the last times
and who made that rule
and why do i have
to follow it
it’s all in the numbers
it can all be calculated with
equations and dollar signs
first
smile step kiss
last
kiss laugh breath
not exactly the same
not exact at all
because no one has the right answers
and no one gets to see
the cheat sheet
or all the lines, verbs, nouns and
adjectives that wriggled their way
in between
and the teacher is sitting in the corner
wearing her carefully decorated dunce cap
trying to figure out how to make
her last first time
add up
to all the time
that came before it
and she has all these numbers
crisscrossed on the palm of her hand
but she can’t find one zero anywhere
.
.
.
Last night the light was gorgeous.
Gorgeous enough to drag me up off the couch despite a migraine, gorgeous enough to warrant the real camera rather than the phone camera, gorgeous enough to bathe everything in beauty.
Today, I still have a migraine. I am behind in the work I need to get done this week, I am tired and my house is a mess.
There is always something that needs doing, always a reason to be here instead of there, always the feeling that the pile of sand in the bottom of the hourglass is larger than the pile of sand left at the top.
Last night, I didn’t care about any of that. Last night, I sat in the sun as it slowly drew long shadows over everything in sight.
I read and listened to birds, threw my head back and stared at the sky, inhaled crisp air just beginning to smell like autumn.
Life can seem so complicated. But really, it’s all so simple.
It’s all about the light.
ten eleven 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
::
.
.
as I watch quietly from my garden, alone, exhausted, content,
listening to the trill of cedar waxwing,
the sharp bark of tree frog,
the never-ending harmony of crickets.
it’s ever so much better
than silence.
dawn is the ritual of future
pink promise potential
to bury beneath
the quilt of day
in the silence
your eyes are silhouettes
the deep of between
with a hint of purple
vines become shackles
as you scramble to the top
turning twisting twining
green ropes to hold you
up to the sun as you sing
your blues to an audience
of arbitrary fascination
spinning false tales
in the spotlight
of sound
.
.
.
the corn is thirsty
the farmers are hungry
vultures are sated
and herons
have moved on to greener pastures
i can’t see the beginning
or hear the end
i am cracked and bone dry brittle
i dance beneath the blue
of the somebody said so moon
i am alone but not at all lonely
i pitch a tent and
sit cross-legged in the dark
trees whisper of water
longing is an empty form of love
dehydration is the blind form of longing
and forty days would never be enough
to save us
from the landscape
of our lives
The swamp down the road from us has dried up on one side, leaving small puddles filled with frantic fish and no escape.
For the birds, herons and turkey vultures and seagulls alike, it is a smorgasbord.
For photographers, it has been a gift.
This is the second time in the past 10 years this has happened. Heat and drought adding up to evaporation.
The food chain forming its own long necklace of death, and life.
I walk down the road and watch it happen without knowing why. Herons by the handful when usually, seeing one is a gift. Vultures making beautiful tracks across the sky, too far away to reveal their own ugliness.
And all the while, little fish, swimming their way towards nowhere.
