I’ve mostly been comfortable in my skin,
sure of what my body could do
even when I felt like an emotional hurricane.
Mostly the damage stayed inside.
I’ve wondered over my mental state,
the numbness that comes with surviving,
the ever-present swirl of thoughts;
I am my own worst distraction
and best source of entertainment.
It’s been that way since I could first daydream.

I’ve felt a shift with aging,
less sure of my body, more sure
of my thoughts. An adept changeling
-but with emotions still all over the place.
Mostly the damage stays inside.
Maybe I’m not meant for balance in this life,
which is terrifying and exciting
but still wildly entertaining.
The daydreams are more fantastic
and age is a figure shaped like me.

Measured movement, feeling every step
(heel-toe, heel-toe)
the locomotion a means to no end
losing count, trying again,
tripping up… again (heel-toe)
willing the chin away from the chest
to look up as curiosity holds sway
the sway of a clock’s hands
the sway of hips propelling forward
a body too tired to think on its own,
following a bird’s flight
as a guide upward into light
or at least less darkness where we are.

We planted marigolds today.

They have done well in our rocky soil,

withstood the heavy winds

that buffet our valley,

and they looks like sunrise

in the middle of the grass.

We’ve tried other flowers

but they seem either dull or bland

and by end of summer, look tired

unlike the marigolds which persist.

It’s dusk now

with a lot of green covering the hills

as they roll out of sight.

The sky is a darkening purple

with a moon fat and full and waiting

like the barn cats down the road,

itching for action by night.

I can still make out the colors

of flame that herald summer

as the marigolds and I settle in.

Take your coffee
however you like, with or without garnish
or better yet, take tea.
Don’t ask impossible shapes of clouds.

The whole allure of watching
was born in me when I was young, always new to a place; I could see more clearly
detached and through a camera lens.

I wore layers of green today
and I think it was a bid
for dressing for the job I want.
I want to sink into the forest floor.

The woman in the book wore green
and she was beautiful with perfect eyes
like the sea. Mine are mossy at best
and I look like a ragamuffin in mixed layers.

Experiencing the rain at night
when you can’t see or hear or feel clearly
is a gift of perception which is ironic
as senses are taken away to receive it.

Pale green the spring air, a little wind
makes breathing labored
so that some retorts are a gasping thing,
grasping for a hold

finding it easier to breathe
when looking up at heights
unimaginable – disimagined, detached
as the views can be better
with eyes firmly shut
at least when we’re children
dreaming without knowing
better

Wherever you are
I am on the other side
recognizing a symbiosis with moss
and how good it it feels to dwell in fog

softly climbing, falling apart a little
on the way up
incomparable (pick your pronunciation)
in the moonlight, the poet said at lunch,
the tearing apart of paths
to the music of birds no matter the weather

feathers holding together
a larger picture
with bustling people in faceless cities
and houses waiting to be filled and loved
with people who want the same

down the lane, a few hours from lunch.