Leaves in summer, full of passion, always flirt
Roots in winter, compassionate, hold the dirt
is a path built in the Cascades. Tectonic plates. It adheres to a dream where I’ve floated above the trail, without pain, not worrying about the forest. The seasons stilled and the river is silent. In this sleep, my imagined body feels like it’s falling through my bed. I abruptly wake up.
is an old child’s bicycle. Tubeless tires. The back tire had a gash chewed out of it, five inches long, causing me to bump along. Then, it refused to turn, sticking in place while I was riding a couple of feet off the ground. Made a full stop and I fell. During this life, my imagined spirit feels like it’s falling through the earth. I abruptly wake up.
Being poetic can be accidental
Being a poet is no accident
Feel free to make representations out of your own fiction.
Be careful when you make representations of someone else’s truth.
Et Tu has been published.