buds, to look upon

hold my hand, little
tree, see how dirt
bubbles dry and the
sea will turn green.
let it be,
i see whispered in
the lines of the
dying birch tree.

hold my lavender
shoot along groves
of forgotten
i miss you โ€™s
and longing
never returned,

littered in the sun
like dandelion seeds.

i forgot how to
pray and the lie
is i never knew,
never knew.

never knew
i needed to pray
to anything but
a hymnal of
plants budding green.


seedlings, or buds?

green buds, form. otherwise we
will sink into sidewalks grown
sticky from the layers of a
drugged out winter.

we are born
again and again
out of the little green buds.

out of what is holding
winter in the air, thick
like a tessellated plane.


dawn broke cold this morning.

i thought of you the way i always wanted
to think of you: as docile as my dreams
told me to be. then the morning fog shaded
the rolling hills out from the greens and
browns of late winter to the white blues
of obliviation.

gulls danced along the pale orange
plane between the tree line and
wrapped up the easter sky.

i used to be thankful you are now
a whole world away, but these
mornings have taught me otherwise.

gratitude is for the ego.

life as prototype of dreams

my brother hid
with his friend

(i imagine now
his hair
being threaded by cobwebs older
than we)

the broken red snow sled
its cylinders gasping for fresh benzene
now for years we hadnโ€™t known ourselves

behind noises that belonged
between the trees
in the woods
across the road

behind the lesson
that there is no discovery
if there is no fear

this prototype became realized.
he fixed
those iron lungs, and
i went looking
for the noises that belonged
between the trees
in the woods
across the road

though we pretend to be

like the way the bear rolls from his sleep
onto the gentle snowed in morning,

i saw him struggle against cramps
yawning taut

wound tight from a mother who
never sleeps herself

and in consideration of such a rare glimpse
he sensed me too,

we fall and roll into and out
from each other.

waking up from our instincts.
seeing we are not gods.