She felt the weight of the day

before she opened her eyes.

It felt like trying to lift the ceiling

off the floor, only to fall like overripe fruit.

.

How many hours can I push around

sunlight and rain trying to make

a fractal that calls to the fern,

she wondered silently?

.

Maybe if I stand very still in the forest,

with only memories of movement and hurt,

I will be swallowed by moss and bears

(which feels oddly impending), she smiled.

.

There’s a savior out there somewhere,

she thought, and he’s making the earth

tremble with his laughter.

I’d like to laugh too once I stop being sad.

Moments have become bent

or maybe they’re bowing beneath

the brutal beauty of blue skies,

thin green chunks of time

waving in a spring breeze

awaiting the Big Blossoming.

It’s here and it’s tender

like new grass

and I’m almost afraid

to touch it but I want

to lie down and sink deeply

into a cool dark rest

away from the bold sun

and strong words

of people pushing into the week

like freight trains, dirty and unnecessary

and almost always forgettable

in their sameness.

I’d like to hum and watch the sky

and feel my edges drift away.

The voices across the fields

mostly quieted.

A few low sounds of cows

and frogs and a faraway laugh of a woman

at the window doing dishes.

.

Her skies were open and dark

with bits of light reaching her

like summers from long ago.

.

Looking at the night sky

embers from the fire blending with stars,

a sparkly soup of millions

of laughs and cries and shouts

forming bears, birds, and chariots.