lastdayofMay

the golden concoction of feelings on the water;
the seven pm Spring light:
I am that and
I am that too –
the willful ignorant rage of the shadows creeping

something about a day beginning or
something about a day ending or
can I manufacture something like emotion
something like Love –
can I turn it on;
off;
inside out
like a weapon

Can I graze it against my face;
a finality; a river
Escalations of bone; I am broth; I am hunter
you press me; flower ribcage into your book –
a field guide gatherer, a fumbled heart forager;
a finder of lost lingerings
I, a postcard,
I, a lock of hair still
attached
to the
head
Is it a lock then – or a key – or a strand?

did you not remember?

I can’t make it there by 7pm
I’m sorry, I simply cannot make it
did you not
remember by May 9th the moss his draped itself
over the swollen wooden staircase on the other side of the canal –
the sight is a devastation of beauty

the weeks have grown up over the river banks and musty shadows of the dust-flies
have kicked up a new light
and the pools of aqua-green chase my bike tires /
hungry-hued at golden hour

I cannot possibly miss this sunset / I cannot possibly miss this
please I cannot possibly miss this dusty emberglow
please do not ask me to /
Please do not ask me to

somewhere i have never traveled –
is a forgery of facts
somewhere i am always growing –
and where are you now, and where are you then?

some day may 6 will be a sitting chest of drawers – someday something fervent and replete will greet you – a dove, a perch, a set of pomegranates draped across a lens

What am I supposed to do with this heart that is a mass of messes?

rough and tumble – riptide and rumble, hear me little rain – pour me out again. the spring is come, the spring is come. the rain is washing us, washing us. let me be a hard hunger for words again.

“i wish that i had been there, to save you zack”

I send you love, dear Ryan.

I feel confronted by this event in ways and with questions I don’t feel prepared to know how to answer. The pain, the unnecessary pain in your body that will now become your home, your way of living – I don’t see the silver lining in that pain.

And maybe that’s okay, maybe there can’t be, and shouldn’t be. But I don’t feel qualified to dictate that, or anything really, for that matter. For some reason this seems to shake me more than death. Death I’ve approached – and death I’ve reasoned through, but all this pain. The shattering of a life, of a path, the endless, slow pain. I can’t reason through it. And I know it’s not my sadness to take on, to claim for myself. But I feel existentially confronted. And I feel confronted by how many unnecessary pains like this happen all the time in the world. Confronted in a way that it isn’t just a narrative on an episode of ER television or stories that paint you a picture. It isn’t a glossy story I can compartmentalize and place with all the other feelings of guilt. It is standing in front of my eyes. Too close to be in focus. And I can’t see the picture just yet, I just see your pain. And your derailment from your life. I feel confronted by all the people who fall sick, who deal with chronic illness, with shattered bones, with devastated young lives – with fallen eyes of little ones.

And all this today on this day of the health care bill. It seems a little consuming. A little too dark and answerless – the sky seems unfair to enjoy today. I walked down the canal path – it was lush and glowing and full of life and seemingly unaware of all the hospital rooms and rushing faces and unfair signatures at the end of unfair bills. It seemed incongruous – like the world did not know all it’s parts – only what it wanted to show you. I felt confronted by the ways we so often live our lives with all the shadows of the world eclipsed from ourselves. How are we ever to enjoy a gorgeous spring day in Bucks County when there are so many people falling through roofs in the world? How are we supposed to do it? How am I supposed to be grateful enough to make me allowed to enjoy something that another will never have? How am I supposed to stand in a warm shower letting the warmth glow over me knowing that all the bones in your body are broken and you may not stand, you may not know comfort for years. And how? How can this world be made of so many broken things and how are we supposed to be okay with the perfectly fair wind of a spring breeze in Yardley, Pennsylvania. I feel too entitled in my own body that works and hums.

You can fall through a roof anytime. I feel haunted and unworthy of my manifold riches in this world. My body, above all things, my health, above all things. It seems too decadent – to be young, to have it all work.

I feel haunted and unworthy of my manifold riches in this world. My body, above all things, my health, above all things. It seems too decadent – to be young, to have it all work.

I feel nauseous.

 

Well, there’s something.

 

I am sending you love Ryan, and hoping the path will find your feet again, and let you walk it.

with half the afternoon past on an April 28th

sing a little, swing a little – singe my heart, will you?

i never want to take these smells for granted – the conifer russet, the mulch iron, the fuzzy grace of the lilac and the wisteria. i never want it to be anything other than a 3pm April 28th – curled catnap cat napping in the corner of the porch (radiant and perched, he swirls his body lithe). i never want to be anything other than a friday afternoon, deep spring (phase 4 and a half of spring to be exact). i want the alwaysbreath of the willow to lie with me on the days that are not this day. i want the alwayssky of the April 28th to be my horizon, wrapping around me with silver cord. tucking me in to my little garden bed. sprinkle a little soil on my head, and send me on my way. grow, grow, little one – the sun’s come out see you. to let you see. to let you be seen. come out, come out, little one – seeds are only one of the many many’s you are. you will be. you can be.

revel, revel; revere this day

tuck me inside your pocket, i am a breath of earth. soil-curled and wild-flowered, i am a warrior – a sun-shadow stealing through the season. this is the season, this is the one. this is the air i come home to. this is the meaning i come running for. i come running for this season – i come running for the spring. i come barreling out of my body – winter-shed and snow-shaving, i pearl my body towards the newness. i wrap myself around the roots and i hold on for dear life. saying burst, burst. let’s go. let’s burst again.

ecstasy, the rapture. we have all forgotten this. the fragrant power that squirrels in our stomachs. we can weep for the sight of the sun, we can weep for the dew on the grass. we forget, we forget – the majesty deserves your worship. the earth deserves to be kneeled upon, to be kissed, to be honored, to be reveled in. we can worship this season, and we can fall into ecstatic sight. the glow of the light through the fresh lime-green leafbabies/the scent of the blossoms on the tepid wind/the rush of chlorophyll back to the grass graceland/we can fall, we can fall; we can fall to our knees and praise. we forget, we forget, how much it gives back. how much we receive when we give thanks. we forget how much we get back when we honor. when we revel, we revolve, we evolve, we remember. reverence is a certain power. let yourself reap the benefits of gratitude. let yourself revel in the awe, revere the rapture, experience the ecstasy – just a moment, if you like. burst again, burst again. we forget what value worship gives us. because we have contorted, we have connoted, we have conflated, we have elevated ourselves beyond the power of praise. reclaim your ancient rite – for yourself, for your own meaning system, for your own values, for your own sense of what is powerful and true and vibrant and enlivening. make yourself come alive. by surrendering to the great power we find in gratitude. in bending your head to the bosom of the spring field, and saying thank you. in falling in love with the small bud bursting forth next to your eyelash. in falling in ecstasy in the morning – at the sight of the dew on your pupils. fall in ecstasy. fall in rapture. revel, revel, revere this day. revel, revel, the spring has come to stay. praise, praise, the world gives you a say.

as the lilac opens

Spring sings me out of my skin and I am a sunchild searching for something to breathe

 

We should live exceedingly and rarely as the lilac opens as the curled leaves tumble inside of themselves chlorophyll hungry and thirsty for wind.

 

Someday God will hold you 4 Hands, 3 packs of cigarettes, 9 blind eyes. Someday God will hold you hot sun flash and warm bubble dress bow. Didn’t you know it was there? Didn’t you know the trees are still growing/the bark is my new flesh/crawling ants and termites – they burrow, but so does love. So does the wind.

 

It’s strange and confusing and bewildering – the strange journeys our lives take. You don’t have to feel a victim to your own story. And you don’t have to feel resentful of your own story…it’s a strange unfolding; a brilliant wilderness; a strange bravery that keeps us all dancing down the path. Let us move past simple judgments of stories into the wider unfolding of greater stories rooted in places beyond sight, stories still at bay, stories still unfolding, stories still curled in buds. Let us honor the grace of rebirth; the power of life to keep transforming; the willingness to change. Here’s to divorce, and a new spring waiting for the sun.

I have been largely quiet about my journey with divorce – but now I’ll be clear – you always have agency, you always have strength, you always have choices. 

 

Love is a temple, still. After the rain, inside the rain/being the water/hungering in the puddles/seeping in the sleepless fervor. Love is a prayer, still, to the chlorophyll hurrying towards you. Hurrying towards you; this day, this wilderness unparalleled and courageous. Hurrying towards you – a season, a whimper, a fresh-faced bark hieroglyph. Read it, read it  – this opening curled outwards.

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.

circumstantial circumstance and the circus tent over your head big enough to keep the light out. keep the light out, keep the light bright.

tree-breath wanderer branch – you keep growing in the winter dew, you keep splaying – sun baked and revelrous. the world keeps spinning round, the winter keeps winding down. come little spring, come. winter bones, winter-melt, come wash yourself away.

the wind is waiting to warp you

here was a word I once knew how to own, and here was a body I once knew how to inhabit.

here was a season I once flooded – here is a season I’ve never met. here is a month drenched in climate confidence (change and circumstance, pomp and confusion). here is my child, here is my breath. here is my constantly churning yearning for the knowledge that I am brave enough to articulate what tiny words I know (together, they are a spell/apart, they are a whimsy; a whimper; a wish). here is Meinong’s jungle, here is a hacksaw. here is Aquinas’s’ theory of natural law, here is nature, tapping at my window, asking to come in. here is the new season, tapping on my tongue – asking to come in. asking me to come out, come out – see the splendid seeds brandishing their stalks and stems. come out, come out – pull your skin towards the sun once more. come out, come out, the clocks will tumble too – we’ll all lift our faces towards the sun/tilting/tilting/we’ll all till the land, kill the clock, shake the ice out of our senses. here is the season – come out, come out/the wind is waiting to warp you.