i try not to let it crack

rattle-roll, i hear the toll of every ticking branch, seemingly seeming to see the end of the season swimming towards us – swallowtail, i swallow the sun in gulps and grants – i grant myself fervor and hot-footed breaths

candlemas, and the turning of the earth towards the light – light, and the turning of the ash to soil once more – and the planting, the thought of the thought of the thought before the seed

a thousand New Year’s days please – the courage of beginning again – the raw heart of a new beginning a thousand times over – in a row, lined like ducks perched everlasting, please – your heart, please, draped next to mine in the cold winter’s night, please – wrapped in a body, a little flesh fragment – a little capsule for a wilderness within 

and you too, your memories reek like rotted seasons cracked at the bark – your skin beginning to crack too, and me, and my memories beginning to crack too – your scratchy, distant face, the way my caterpillar of a heart cocoons itself when it flashes to memory – no longer mine, no longer yours, the frozen thumping of a blazing hot season of youth traipsed over my eyes – forever young, forever frozen in the heat, forever wild, a creature of agelessness / it isn’t that i feel old – it’s that the curvature of time takes you away from me, moves the strange temperature of your soul from a dark blue to a hue i cannot recognize, am not supposed to know how to recognize ; the distance both a time and space – a relativity of distance longer than a word can be described ; a perpetual dying, a perpetual freezing

I find myself literally dreaming about the spring during this season, the goosefeet of mid-march drumming through the rain, the cotton wind of the clouds currying over the hillside, the mist of a meadow that sits somewhere between reality and me – and myself, the virulence of my body allowed to breathe, no longer strapped into sinews of cotton and corduroy – i dream about my flesh touching the wind again, the sunlight touching my hair again, my feet able to run into morning dew, my eyes able to open to the splays of green and yellow – i dream, i dream, i sleep, i hibernate my heart, i try not to let it crack in the freeze, in the ice-sheets blanketing mud, i try to keep it balmed / i try not to let it crack


purple summer

follow my little trail, breadcrumbs and bones – turn style ribbons/hampers full of typewriter keys/ follow my little footsteps, i am dancing, i am a river.

the sky is purple haze and lilac-cream and the rain is a gentle visitor on my head. the summer is curling outwards and i am trying to remember to take it in. i am trying to remember to take the time to breathe it in, to feel the rain on the roof, the clatter of cloud shapes across the sky. i am trying to remember to feel the grass between my toes, on my back, between my fingertips. i am creating in a new way now – dancing and plotting and graphing and charting and moving bodies in space. teaching and directing and discovering aspects of my own strength i had not yet tapped in to. i am owning my shit and bumbling boldness in ways i did not even know i truly love. i am enjoying a new process, a firm hand, a vast crafting. seeing a show from the other side. making decisions and sticking to them. being clear, crafted, specific. on the beat. inside the sound. with the rhythm. swaying. i am enjoying creating and i am enjoying getting to revisit my beloved soul. this show feels sacred to me. like a carved part of my ancient heart. a ghost that came to sit and heal me at a time when i was broken. a melody that came to sing me out of grief when i was all sorrow and flutterskin. when i was life-shaken and curledfear this music came to sit on my shoulder. to be life-affirming. to sing out the sorrow and show me how beautiful it was. and i could hear it – reflecting back – the beauty in the depth of your sorrow – the beauty in the human experience, the human struggle, the human spirit. the sensory experience of life and living. of finding the light in the darkness. and the comfort of making peace with the darkness, and the glow of holding fast to the smallest of lights – that’s what this show gave me. and kept giving me. and kept giving me. and walked me out of pain so that i could sit with sorrow. and sit with beauty. and sit with joy. and feel the shadows, the ghosts, the lights, the melody, all at once. sit with the autumn and winter of your soul, and languish in the spring and summer of your soul.

and you said the best way to describe me is that i inhabit my body completely. and i have since i was a teenager. and that that was special. and that was a beautiful thing to say, i think.

so let’s sing it – the song of purple summer.

and it is not binary; it is complex. and it is not one season we all endure – it is all of them. and they are all this life. and it is not parts and parts and parts. it is complex. it is not binary, it is complex.


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;
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
to the
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.