I know that God loves me,
Because I’ve seen it.
I say this as a person who lives honestly enough in their pursuit of death
To know that God is just another word for family
And heaven is the first time you laughed at one of my jokes
Or I low-key told you I love you
By complimenting your eyes.
I know I’m a product of galaxies and also
That being your friend makes me a planet worth inhabiting
At one point I envied you
In your ability to be so, much universe. Now,
In knowing you
I have learned to listen to the tides
Instead of yearn for the moon.
You are trees I stop to touch and tincture
Of bitter root.
Large full flowers and careless dogs.
Early on I was taught to fear
God, death, vulnerability.
It’s like my words were trained in a steady
Beat, I’m pounding so bountifully
To be careful with your affection but
You arrived loud in your blue light gaze
And sandalwood lips. Redwood forest in your fingers
I had to stop to see
What California girls really meant.
Then you spoke to me with me
With this, loving quiet.
I’ve never known a person of such great strength
To open their roaring, vast heart and be so
When we met,
Your trade was the wilderness.
You’d lead me with doe’s sight
Hand in hand down root-infested paths
Through this sanctuary of old oaks and sunken mud prints,
Where insects make a living off our skin,
Inch worms and acorns tumbling like leaves.
It’s been five years of ferns departed to soil,
Then re-birthed with spring.
Better groomed beard, but the same flannel.
The sound of our past selves blends with our new voices
Ghosts lingering among the grainy beams of light.
We are mid-conversation
When you stop like a
Ears perked, body stone
From the thicket comes
Music, rustling bushes and threats-
A red squirrel twitching on rotting wood
Cheeps arrogantly in our direction.
You meet his gaze
Dark woodsmen eyes, shoulders squared toward the indecency
Voice rising from your chest
Wild but calculated
Baritone pining at falsetto-
Repeated, exciting blips of sound!
This continues a while,
Then you are soft again.
So beautiful, I think
As you again reach for my fingers-
An inclination that it is our time to continue.
Your love for banter warms me
These arguments, also
Withstand the long winters.
Placating the absurdity
Seven seas are clashing together
Each with a right to bare rage and wild things-
The valor of a better tomorrow in their teeth and
It’s so beautiful.
I hear the womyn praise, and
Buildings shiver with guilt.
Womyn cry out, to something otherworldly and
Suddenly, the sky bows to their feet.
Bless you, sweet powerhouse grrrl.
Be everything I can not be
Be everything I can not be
Be who we need,
No matter where it meets you
In this life.
Just do not lose
The wilderness that made you,
Will serve you better than any beast.
Oh, thickets of green reburied,
What news of spring do you carry?
From the yellow bulbs who came one warm March morning
Bloomed exalted secrets
Than as quickly vanished.
What of the pansy covered hill sides?
Where hides the minnows, clustering in sluggish streams?
I woke to song birds just yesterday.
Mud draped my boots as I greeted mid-morning,
A town of smiles and loose coats.
By night the world returned to ice,
Storms of white soldiers
Painted streets in vengeful snow.
Where have you hidden the promising notes?
Those little blips of new born goats and flowered trees.
I dreamed the rivers grew pregnant with old winter,
The peonies grew tall and giant,
The entire world;
If everyone is made of stardust
Than so is Spider-Plant
(duly named for his spidey successor)
Whom has lasted two years,
And so many dark winters.
Through drought, neglect,
Drowning and misconnection
The tiny, long necks of leaf
As if the endless nothingness was to spite it
Savior comes from the deep, wedded roots
In the murk, the skeletal
Vastness it fills.
If I thrive as well as this neglected child of nature,
Than I am doing something,
Nay, I pray, anything.
Reading the mind of a storm
There they are, oh,
May I float by and bring nothing but
Fleece lined sheets!
Another log upon the fire,
A day and a sled, spent on the pre-creased hill.
But what if all of me is too much?
The succulent joy of giving myself to the flavor of a moment
Has me, unapologetically, honest.
I love how I love,
A glitter bomb of enthusiasm
A deep and heavy canvas of individual thoughts
Frozen in magnificent, tiny flecks
Ready to breathe.
Will this magnitude bring strife on the daily bustle?
To be captured in the wayward fall of my joy?
I will wait for the high tipping trees and endless, quietness of
My apologies to the brief living,
I am too, doing the best I can
With all that graces my soul
This passing of time.
The maple, and it’s many children,
Know arguably more of patience and sporadic joy
Than any tree, with it’s naïve wisdom.
The helicopter seeds of autumn
Do not fall, as much as
Hijack the wind.
Fluttering laughter of a leaf,
It does not pedal fast with knowledge of where to land
But with great faith.
Knowing the earth will ingest,
The great thick roots.
The heaviness of wood.
Those promising days of shade,
Upon the arrival, wherever it may be,
Of the singular, fragile wing
Journeying forward and on.