We spin tales
out of threads
we had given up
for lost
and our story grows
longer than hands
can hold.

The hardest part
is waking
to find we are holding
only wisps of dreams.

Where dragons ride clouds
and sun greets moon across a big sky,
we are part of the same dream
of rain and fire at dawn,
joy and pain at dusk.

The words may be hidden but easy to feel
when we give ourselves over
to the quiet miracle inside the storm.

The days, the minutes
move forward and backward;
I swallow, sometimes thirsty,
sometimes gagging,
always curious.

I could fill a bucket with woe
but I choose to open wide
in the face of the big empty.

The trees do not worry
(because they are trees
but also) because there is
an inherent understanding in nature
that twisted limbs, messy patterns,
and simple urges are all part
of the array of time in the woods.
We are not meant to stay tamed
and orderly when we love;
we are not born to a manicured garden,
rather we are born to wild laughter
and astounding possibility
of growth and light and song
that we somehow forget as we learn
the bitterness that life can rain down.
We are lucky if we can still be open
to a wild mess of loving as the trees do,
tangled, reaching, blooming.