may 5

Even more new memories ;; like ripping up chunks of grass with my bare hands to build my own garden ; like getting trapped behind municipal gates; a car load full of compost in my trunk – the cops shaking their head at me , wondering why I need all this compost ;; like driving a stake into the ground , making a fence to keep my plants safe ;; like building a deck with my friend , throwing pallets onto the ground , screwing thick nails into the cheapest wood I could find , staining it a beautiful canyon brown ; new furniture ; looking for things I’ve never looked for before , like patio furniture , like extra plates and cups for guests ;; watching the wind topple everything over ; letting the pollen lay a thick dusting of yellow onto everything ; planting flowers , learning their names , picking them out , plunging my hands into the dirt , watering them , caring for them ;; listening to the rain as it dances on the roof of my tiny little house ;; patching up holes , repainting nicks, finding solutions to tiny leaks of light ; trying to find a rain barrel big enough to hold as much water as I’d like ; trying to pull water deep out of my well ; wash dishes with my sweet little gallon of water perched over the sink ; so much light leaking through all the windows ; pouring in to my little nest ; hammock strung up in the trees ; breezes always carrying soft scents ; the wishes of seeds that want to find the ground , carried on the wind ; Beltane and the first of May ; all the things my favorite month can do : all the things spring can bring ; the season where I am most alive , where my hands can find the dirt and sing to a seedling ; let it reach up and feel the rays of soft light – not fire yet, just the glaze of perfect warmth – a sudden toss of gentle rain , the flourish of so many buds , of so many blossoms , of so many new vegetables growing thick eyes and wide chests under the ground ; and all the little signs they send up above , all the mail they bring to my doorstep ; my watering can: my sweet new friend ; my bare feet, a hallelujah ; stringing up solar lights around my new gazebo , pulling the tent taught , karl holding the ladder while I reach and reach for a screw or a button or a hook ; the way we did it ourselves ; all the banging, tossing, screwing, sawing ; all the findings, searchings, piecing together of imaginings ; the sandbox of dragged rocks thick pulled from the creek – full with water knowledge , hidden in the woods , plopped next to my house , filled with play sand : now an imaginarium ; a planetarium ; a wild island just for one ; and the happy singing ; Jamie and his perfect oasis ; jumping on a tiny trampoline ; all the joy you cannot bottle , but that grows unkempt from the ground , never ending , always renewing , always the unending spring , always time enough to play, to laugh, to grow – to return to the dirt a small seed: graceful leaves a precious sail, a rudder on a green ocean ; wild in the sky and gracious in the grass

beyond language

She comes in waves ; pinks strutting in a parking lot ; waves of white daffodils ; purples that graze the sides of your feet // if you are lucky enough to be barefoot and let the earth touch you, you can fall through the dirt like water ; you can plant yourself everyday , and stretch , stemmed and leafed and waking towards the sky ; if you are lucky enough to be on this planet, you get to open your eyes everyday to the White of a cloud or the hum of an april rain — you get to listen when the atmosphere drops as a storm comes rolling in and out ;; you get to watch, every spring, as an unimaginable globe spurts alive like some bewitchment you couldn’t fathom in your wildest fantasy — things coming alive, pulled by a star 93 million miles away; old light coming to pull seeds out of a blanket of earth all on their own, no motors, no algorithm, just the deep instruction beyond language

pearls upon your cheeks

you are bouncing down the street and snow is falling slowly ; so slowly you can see the lack of rhythm pressing itself against the canvas of the atmosphere / the metronome is stuck right in the center , and we are all on the edge of the earth looking at the way rain comes back down in so many pieces;; I watch the yellow green grass slowly turn white; the cold bundle itself in the trunks of trees // the bark skin grows tattoos of cream and silver ; all the pine glistens, the chopped edges of branches: an opening – our glassy consciousness now a slow motion ripple of words falling into a blanket ; you are still laughing down this empty street ; tucked into our tiny corner of the world, you do not care what I am writing, you just care about the way the flakes of snow whisker upon your eyelashes and place themselves like pearls upon your cheeks ; you laugh and gasp and grasp towards the sky ; you dig your bare hands into the freeze as if the cold was just another friend come to play // victorious with only a spoon, you are serving snow soup to all the imaginary creatures that live on an upturned rock / humming sounds and sound effects the only language you need to speak to the snow , and here, in the silence of this swollen lullaby, the snow speaks back

hungering, hungering

i felt thirst for life come over me like a violence – supple, surrendering. drink through me from my fingertips to my roots. root me in a resonance round and repeating. i felt hunger for lust thundering through me like a rapture – spring had bounded through branches into buds. spring had curled into seeds and knocked twice. life had flung out like a drummer – noting, present, pearlescent. i felt dirtsmell and humus grumble sinking out of the snowmelt. i felt, i felt, i hurled my heart into a ball and let me blood burn white again – spring is here, the daffodil said. spring is here, the crocus called. spring is following you down the road – hungering, hungering, here comes the feast.