I could linger here for hours, sinking deeper into the
busy stillness, that unwinds when I bed down
in the sweet grasses, and watch the world work.
Beetles, blossoms, birdsong.
The swollen heat of high summer has come.
It tugs, and thrums and meters out the breath of life.
I consider the sticky, happy, bleed
of pressing sunshine.
The Earth’s gentle turning yields generosity
from a relentless sun.
This critical act of immaculate capitulation
allows us to rest in darkness and gather strength to
I am feeling to find these threads,
sensitizing myself to touch the cords with confidence,
and know which action is needed.
I am thinking about how to honor the lineage of this
relationship, of knowing when enough has come. Of
knowing what to turn away from, and what to turn into.
I trust the material I am made from, yet know so little
of its working. This wisdom murmurs late at night as
the narrator of my dreams, and in the daylight hum of
Our distance from our native knowledge of how to be,
is perhaps the greatest consequence of our
advancement. I have seen nothing else in nature that
extrapolates its expectations beyond the boundaries of
The snowdrops bow their delicate, white heads, and shine their light back to the earth.
The first offering of spring is to the source.
The crocuses salute the sun, all eagerness and stretching, in noble robes of purple and gold.
The second offering of spring is to the source.
The daffodils are standing now, but still tightly bound. When they open, they will gaze out upon the land.
The third offering of spring is to the world.
In early spring, they swell into the promise. They dress for the brutality of these first days, determined harbingers of life. It’s time, they say. It is time to begin work on the blossom. What can you do when your own voice calls, but answer? Even if it means waking in the dark, and rising to practice existence when it’s inhospitable. It is a trudging victory, these early steps. The flowers wait beneath the snow, feeling smug and sensible.
But don’t you notice the danger of your luscious rush, think the pussy willows. You are lovely, yes, but so vulnerable. The world is full of those who want to clutch you in bunches, and be everything they cannot say. It is a heavy burden to speak the words of another; the lonely cold is not so bad.
They crack their shells and wiggle from their chinchilla husks. These buds, new buds, tell an ancient story, again. The current sentinels of their lineage, they sing their verse in a shudder that lasts for centuries. They etch their line in the circle that builds at once in every direction. A slow ripple that quietly chants, There was drought, and I existed. There was abundance, and I existed. If I am here, I will exist. Even flora, it seems, wants a memory.
It is a simple epic. A memoir of bearing witness to the unfolding of petals on a blossom.
What do you do with a winter tomato? Roast it with salt and pepper, oil, and good vinegar. Reduce and augment it, to turn it more into itself.
I push my finger through the tender wall, and hollow out the cavities. Carefully slip my finger between the ribs, feeling for the seedy meat. Hook. Pull. Flick. Wet flesh in a surgeon’s tray. Jelly coddled seeds seep towards the drain. Humiliated by their exile, angry at their abortion. Suspended in the protection that bears them away, they glare we are the essence, how could you?
In the heat of the oven, the shells sigh, yes, this is what I am. They relax their bodies, cell by cell, with each scorching breath.
The lamps above me swing in the breeze,
creaking, like dreams at the gallows.
We came here to live, the willing,
and the unwilling.
Sometimes, hating God is all we need
to know that He exists.
Sometimes, belief emerges from everything it isn’t.
If you paint everything that is not the chair,
you still end up with a picture of a chair.
A cameo. A relief.
I eat oranges in the sun,
while the breeze rolls my edges
in and out
of the clear light.