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
neighboring
dying birch tree.

hold my lavender
shoot along groves
of forgotten
i miss you ’s
and longing
glances
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

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.

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.

 

from a morning i woke up and lost my voice

i hear new things from the morning pine boughs:

be gentle, be still, be ever green/

i hear new things from the white and open lake:

be empty, be form,
be a song when you ache for more/

i’m trying, dear mother,
to let the soft animal love as he does

but my morning body wakes
from contorting and bothered aches

so today, i try, and
i hear new things from the bleating dusty streets:

just go/ just go/ just go/

be my lotus, be my lotus

gentle and burgeoning forward
or out of the soil
growth is innocent so long as it can be.

it is a litany of whirling around
and into each other
and singing whispers in-between petals.

like doves together in the morning
we are absent minded of anything
but the pastelled and unfurled atmosphere.
lost in everything, especially the warm
exhale of breath from the south.
especially the light
invitation from a sun that will burn forever,
we imagine.

i feel nothing when i become you
but the catch of each slipping second.

another day another existential crisis

At the moment of setting,
when the sun kisses the
tops of pine trees in a cinch,

it means you could do anything.
Throw everything away and move
to a city with brighter lights.
Wear only grey T-shirts and
fall in love with strangers everyday.

Or you do nothing but
take in the ecstasy of
when the sun and the stars
take their waltzing pass.

winter lungs

in this dark and grayer world of trimmed hedges,
floating berries, black against wet wind and sopped
down grass,

birds sing less and boys wear more. boys that wear the
checked patterns in dyed wool. clouds that look like
wallpaper ash swing through like lines of logging saws.
so,

say that something else comes. magpies are drawn
to such omens, as the only sentinels left, to dine on them
and be ready for that something else which comes.

that something else, that quick at the end of a whip
of wind.

that something else, the white draw from your mouth
suspended in the light.

store up and live.

hold close and be warm.

whisper goodbye to a present sun, wait through the night
with belly deep breath,
one long way under one constant muffle.

the draw back in will be sharp, and will taste like the
gasp at snow for the very first time, and frozen air
shocked your rose pink lungs, new to the world but now,
again, the world can be new.