It wasn’t that long ago

I was spinning in front of a mirror

watching my dress float around me

as my toes ignored the gritty floor,

my hair punched my chin,

my belly jumped like first love,

and I didn’t dare laugh at the magic

as I felt the weight of seasons glancing off

my skin, unlike now when I am wearing

every hot summer day and every deep

winter drift like a cloak and choker

in some sophisticated cocktail party

where I don’t know anyone but I have to

mingle to survive.

It feels like I’ve been peeking

from behind a curtain

at most things,

being present and visible

only to my own bumps and scars.

I’d like to sing out loud

but it comes out barely a whisper.

I’d like to greet the world with open arms

but I catch myself clenched and unwilling.

I’d like to take more than a moment

to breathe deep the late summer green,

but my hills won’t wait for me

and autumn will be upon us both soon.

Something slipped between sheets of rain

as I watched wind bend my birch backwards.

I felt the same anxiety as when Tesla revealed trouble with his retinas.

I can relate. I think.

I too am unsure of the shape of reality

in the face of forces we can’t define.

In the name of dreaming, I beg for more

time, more space, and a little understanding.

Is it healthy to jump start

the nervous system

from a lumbering gait

to a frenzy –

like floating on a hyper sea

with a compass spinning,

lightning flashing its grin

over beasts above and below the depths

I hear Bowie telling me it’s ok

because there’s no doubt

it will end

one way or another;

whether mountain or ocean,

sand infiltrates, soil smothers

and soon the spinning will be

our little dusts mixing with other dusts

and oh, stars and thunder and maybe

whale-shaped clouds, if we’re lucky.

evening tastes

of thousands of fiery pockets

of twilight-drenched grassy hills