She admires the trees, not knowing how young they are.
Gone are the old souls, but she doesn’t know that, the stories she’ll never hear.
She takes a leash off her dog, he runs in the clearing, the meadow once there has vanished and the grass in the park will never turn to a summer’s golden brown.
The pond is peaceful, always is, always will be.
Still, there’s an essence, buried deep in her face, a look of recognition, a wilderness imagined.
The dog runs up to her, flustered, happy, drooling.
She handles a phone.
Snaps a picture of him under young trees, places the leash back upon his neck.
Song lingers, body shaped by its charms.
The instrument, tarnished and scratched, still distinct…
Soft metal of depth, built from devotion, a loneliness all know, few embrace.
Upon first touch, cold as granite, then melody’s warmth wraps…the air.
Strange kind of ether, a wonder we breathe, sound is the current of the core.
Bending a phrase, the trailing dash of a note, dangling off into chant…
Magic is craft mixed with gift, singed by song, burnt into listening, words that hit inside.
First notes feel the delicacy of fingers, the embouchure fixed
Mouth free into verse.
(Emily Dickinson Series #2)
Trails… little lines through forests… embrace connections, gather imprints, from hiking boot, the brave flip flop, the weekend tennis shoe. I’m not alone, but, there’s a separateness I can’t deny.
My feet…clunky…bony things…bad negotiators of ground, stumbles into sunlight, with trees as easel, hangs portraits.
Have I ever handled beauty well? My arms seem like slugs. My eyes unreliable. My organs are preconceived plans. I look at my shoes. Such pretty things, such perfect imprints.
I’ve stomped upon dust, steered around mud. These paths tug upon my pulse, an ache. Even weeds are handsome anarchists. The soles of my shoes have been manufactured especially for this moment.
Yes, you’re on the trail. Somewhere ahead of me, sometimes behind. The way you run lures me. I recognize the shape of your naked foot. I think I’m in love with your lost.
I drink your coldest water. My teeth throb. I’m wild, if only for a speck of time. I pull off my socks.
This south wind
Brings a warmth
Tickling the side
Waiting for the fluster
Of petals who fall
The quickest, earliest
Sticking to shoes
Tracked into the kitchen
“I meant to tell [you]
How I longed
For just this single time”
Late summer petals
Dried, lightened wishes
Caught in kitchen corners
With lone coffee beans
With runaway grains
Who stick to shoes
Tracked out, where
The north wind
Tickles the sides
Of oaks and beech
“To wander—now—is my repose”
- To consume, spend, or employ uselessly.
- Without adequate return.
- Use to no avail or profit; squander.
- To fail or neglect to use.
- To destroy or consume gradually; wear away.
Drinking fountain drain, Mt. Tabor, Portland Oregon, March 2018
(Alien Bowling Ball?)
Tentacles like arms reach for a last touch of sky. Forest fires burn differently depending on the environment. Some fires lick the bark off of trees but leave them alive to grow new skin. Others, like this one, scorch, leaving a graveyard full of Goliath skeletons. Three Fingered Jack, Pacific Crest Trail, July 2017. Forest […]