With plenty of places to disappear
even as the world and time and light
all grow smaller,

there is a shelf full of hiding places
for my psyche (mostly Arctic- I choose
not to dwell on ‘why’ too much).

Like important geologic formations
some movement is indiscernible,
and like big philosophic climaxes
some whispers are like shouts.

We meet in our thermals
with no barriers.

A griffin types furiously on the old Royal
as ivy and ferns try their damndest
to coil around the return key.
A land-locked scuba diver keeps a tally
of how many licks does it take
to get to the center
for our dear ballerina, who toils
amidst the brambles to seek the beauty
of release and with that, a leap into the One
whose hands can shape mountains
and cradle stars.
The griffin smiles, and it’s wicked, sweet,
as the story rises from behind the ribbon.

Every time I mention color,
there’s a zing, a tether
connecting me outwardly
to something bigger
and every time I see morning,
I wonder if this will be THE day
and every time I breathe love,
someone shakes the ropes
holding me fast. It’s a messy fall,
every time,
limbs flailing across sunset,
the reds masking the blues
and my whole body tingles
with an ineffable desire
to do it all again.

A place where time grows smaller
while the heart expands.
A sky hidden inside, breaking
colors of dawn and dusk, feeling
every day like a rising tide.
Sitting quietly with an earthquake
shaking loose psychic wounds,
rendered happily helpless.
Pulling closer to a dream made real
by stretching dimensions, letting go.