I had only grabbed the book
to hold, to think about.
I walked around the house with it
and sat with it awhile.
I knew a little of what might be inside
but my imagination was running rampant –
and why not?
Possibility is often better than reality,
at least in sustained moments.
I often hold onto things too long;
sometimes, I do like to watch them fly away.

At the edge of the stream
with my toes clutching moss
and fingertips in the rushing water
trying to capture a thought
but they’re all as fleeting
as shadows that ride the waves
over rocks and fish below.

There’s a truth in all the movement
around me in the forest
but the stories I tell myself are so loud
as to even make birds seemingly fly mute.
I’m learning to sing with them though.

The mountain seemed to breathe-
growing larger yet fading away
as I walked closer, an incongruity
as my steps made the ground shake
deep inside me.

I remember walking 3,000 miles away
as a young girl, surprised that the hills
looked the same but with older churches,
and the beef was not that different but
there were naked women on the beach.

I was drawn to an artists’ corner
but not the art so much as the hands
creating it amid the traffic and gawkers
and it may have been how they ignored
everyone around them that inspired me.

I had no concept as I flew over an ocean
how my life would bend to and fro
along a dirt road but I remember watching
people’s reactions just as I do now,
from fear to curiosity and back again.

Stars are disappearing tonight
as clouds roll in, bringing rain.
I can still feel the sun’s warmth prickling
my skin today, just as a breeze brushed by.
Flowers stood quietly proud as their colors
and scents filled the spring day.
Birdsong echoes and fades as night comes.

There is bread for tomorrow.
There are stories at my fingertips.
There is nothing more to want at the moment.