Forest

The Race You see a leaking pipe, and know— Though slow, each drop begins the flow Of gallons lost to time and rust, A wound disguised beneath the crust. Each bead a gem, with breath inside, As if the water, too, has pride. Not just a leak, but something more— An ocean waiting at the door. You watch the cars in silence pass, A humming stream of steel and glass— That sterile hum, so clean, precise, Conceals the cost beneath the ice. You hear the glaciers crack and slide, And smell the gas the engines hide, You taste the burn, you feel the cost— And know how much the world has lost. You are attune to the song of the world, But the notes arrive twisted, tangled, and swirled. The air you breathe smells sharp with fear, You see beneath the gilded veneer. You walk the world and feel the spin, Each breath you take—a step, a sin. You search the sky for what to bring, To make a place where spring birds sing. You see it then, with eyes grown wide— The grass is greener on the other side. You tear ...

On a pitted and treacherous path I can only mind my feet. For months and months I fill in lows and cut down highs Lay a strong foundation And build a new way forward. On a wide and open road I stride Seeing the clouds, the trees, and bloodroot buds I close my eyes And sunlight warms my lifted face. 

Time is like love. The more you grasp at it, the faster it seems to pour through your fingertips. When you open your hands and let it flow, the more there seems to be.

Open windows Closed doors Will I go Can I stay?

  Path July 26 2021 I stand in a long slow snake at the airport, Miles and miles until I sleep. My phone to my ear, I tell my mother “Life is a tree with burning roots and endless meaning. Everywhere I look I see a choice And find that I have lost my voice.” “I think life is a path,” she says. “One foot in front of the other.” In my forest the path winds through trees ablaze with white flame, pulsing spiderwebs strung from tree to tree like mycelium. One foot in front of the other. Then a cloud of stuffy cotton descends. Muffled sounds and hazy vision  I tear the fiber apart and crawl forward, One foot in front of the other. As the hour hand pulls me up, A sound ringing in the air, A candle in the snow, I hear myself laughing. I come back to a stream. In the clear water I see my face and know my name. I don’t ask my reflection for anything. I look up to a smiling face and outstretched arms That pull me Across the stream.

  I watch myself shift my eyes from side to side And feel words come to my lips Meaningful words Poetry And I look up to speak But hold them down Because last time they came They came and came and flooded Flooded until I choked as they came out, My eyes wide with fear, Clinging to a voice at the end of the phone In a screaming void of reality And then the words left with a sob Mired in a reality of embarrassment I shook my head to clear the fog But how could I speak when I had no thoughts? I tried to remember the sound of my own laugh, Waiting for the hour hand to lift me up. I look up to speak. Will you hold me down?

Dry Ocean A free writing exercise from around 2017 Like a tearing river of glass the rain drips down from the roof Like an invisible rainbow of curtain A red noise above the blue sky Mr. Sun shines down and the rain keeps falling but the plants are thirsty Towards the dry ocean the water flows over thirsty grass and thirsty people mouths open to the falling drops Eyes pen to the rising fog and rainbow Open weariness does not exist The rain melts it all away and people shout Fingers tingle and the cries of birds flash against pink sunset Dark but soft against the ombre Wearing the face that she keeps in a jar Her memories of tingling fingertips fade.