Sunflowers weep —
dipping their faces to the ground
and kissing the grass
with their tears
Sea
The smell hits me first,
having walked across the wooded island
and gotten used to the damp smell of the earth.
I feel the sharp salty air filter into my lungs,
coaxing me to take deeper and deeper breaths
as I shed my backpack and run to the water.
The tide is low today, extremely low.
I run down the ombre of sand,
becoming more and more steady
as the sand grows darker and cooler.
The crushed shells dig into my feet.
The water soothes as I go splashing in, ankle deep,
taking the sting from the shells and hot sand away,
washing the dirt and campfire smoke with the retreating tide.
I turn to watch my friends emerge from the woods,
eyes blurry from the salty spray and swelling of emotions.
I smile wide with my hands thrown in the air.
The sound of the sea and the breeze
are like sweet murmurings in my ear,
telling me secrets about the world.
***
Our destination is the boneyard,
a scar of land where live oaks, anchored
in the sands, and the ocean come to kiss.
The dead branches are akin to my arms thrown out wide;
the roots a tangled mass.
My heart feels like the water running over our feet,
pooling around our toes in the soft sand;
I can’t seem to expand my chest wide enough
to fit the thumping love inside.
May 2021
I rest my hand on my collarbone,
feeling the indentation of skin,
unsure of the heartbeat
pounding so close to my fingertips.
Dips
The Earth rotates at a speed of 1,037 miles per hour;
our sprinting is like marching through an ocean of molasses
for a world never ceasing in movement.
Our changes feel sudden
when so comfortable floating in stagnant waves
and pulling on worn-out boots.
But our changes happen so fast
in context with Earth’s orbit around the sun.
The hour we spent dancing under the full moon —
tee shirt-clad and glowing —
was merely a blink of an eye to Earth’s revolution.
Our neurons, like Earth,
move quickly,
making sense of each situation
before we have a chance to consider what is happening.
I wonder if that’s where my dips come from,
not the dips in my hips
with their violin shape,
but the mental dips.
When the darkness consumes like a black hole,
inhibiting the warmth, the joy;
taking away the shimmering;
and leaving a blank landscape.
Maybe my brain knows more
than it lets on,
gathering information
as fast as the Earth spins on its axis.
Choice
We stand,
hand in hand,
fates twisting round like
english ivy climbing black iron rails.
Will we remember this moment —
the thrill before the swooshing air,
pounding against our eardrums,
threatens to shatter us?
When our time ends
we will start fresh,
rebirthed from the ashes
of our ancestors.
We will stand tall,
shoulder to shoulder,
soul to soul,
hands limp.
Sometimes
Sometimes
I paint pictures in my head
with sweeps of blue sky,
dapples of flowers, and
soft yellow suns.
Sometimes
I paint with intention,
making plans,
forseeing the white clouds
and packed-dirt paths
leading to somewhere unknown.
Sometimes
my paintings don’t align with the plans,
thoughts of togetherness are replaced by aloneness
and my paint brush rushes to cover over the blips.
Sometimes
I paint pictures layers deep,
hiding the bitter winds,
violent storm clouds,
and disappointed face
under sweeps of blue sky,
dapples of flowers, and
soft yellow suns.
A Conversation
He talks.
She smiles.
He asks all of the obligatory questions.
She answers,
laughing through the formality.
He persists in the silence,
not letting it take a hold.
She fidgets,
more comfortable with the silence
than the task of answering meaningless inquiries.
He watches her movements
as she watches his.
neither know what is true.
Hidden {a series} {pt. 8}
Tonight,
Orbitals align as
Friends gather
Allured by
Thumping hands, in prayer, a
Homage to the
Obscure
Multitudes within.
What is Made for Us to See
I rode past two pharmacies,
each brighter than the fading sun,
containing shelves of white plastic bottles
with red caps.
The caps glowed under the fluorescent lights,
like embers in a fire,
ready to catch and burn.
Hands filled these bottles,
each with their own story —
gnarled, yellowed, but
quick with assembly.
These red and white omens are
not unlike the emergency sign I sit next to.
The red and white sticker stands out against
the dark night sky.
A beacon, promising life after disaster.
Was the color choice obvious to them?
Seeing red, white, red, white
for hours a day —
did the hands learn to equate
the contents of the bottles
to cures?
If I pulled the cold metal handle
and leapt through,
would I find salvation?
Hidden {a series} {pt.7}
Care —
Arms soft, reaching to encircle you
Neck long,
Naturally resting on shaking shoulders
Observing the pain
Through the silence. Today
Became yesterday as
Exhaustion
Gave way to healing,
Internally,
Nearing a state of solemn acceptance.
So It Goes 