Without a thought

any more fleshed out

than the fuzziest of vagabond dreams,

I started singing

a song that had not existed yet.

The verses were like

waves of Venice lapping at the edges

of stone and singing gondoliers;

the choruses were like the best violent love.

The words were sparks

and my voice worked through me

just as designed, but the music

was more than the sum of its parts,

gilt and grit and forest and sea.

I walked among trees and dreamt of rain,

enough rain to wash me out to sea

with ice and sun both.

We are of the elements

in the after times,

when violence has passed.

minutes ticking by

while the moon hides behind clouds

breathlessly I wait

I set a stack of dishes on the table

before dinner and it’s angled coyly.

I toss pillows and a blanket on the sofa

on a diagonal.

I put jars in the pantry seemingly without

pattern, but there’s one there.

The linen shelf has sheets and towels

in various shades of stone.

I light just one or two candles at a time

for enough light- just enough.

I curl to one side when reading a novel.

I eyeball spice amounts in recipes.

I only correct people who say my name

wrong if I’m going to meet them again.

I sing every song as if it could be my last.

I write straight out of my heart but

filtered through my mind. No edits.

I like trickery with words -not deeds.

I water plants and feel slightly benevolent.

I am in love with the moon

no matter how much it chooses to show.

I never tire of wind or trees or hills

or colors or shadows or bread or tea

or hugs or laughs or deep breaths

of fresh air after being cooped up.

I have edited my childhood memories.

I have made a safe harbor for my children.

I have no inner sense of direction

and always find something to interest me

no matter if it’s a dynamic mountain range

or a grocery store. It’s all a wonder.

I think cinnamon and garlic are blessings.

The wonder of the first hyacinth of spring

is something I’ll never get over. Just like

the first view of the ocean after being

landlocked or the array of stars enough to

cradle you if you fell upwards.

I crave an understanding ear and kind smile

but usually create befuddlement.

Texas sheet cake is true ambrosia.

I’ve never tried making it for fear of

falling short as usual.

I am supremely confident in my menial work

and in my place in the forest but have no

roots or sense of place anywhere else.

I like to read people’s stories in their eyes

and often lose what they’re actually saying.

Someday soon I think the pieces of me

will fit together even if only for awhile

and even if it’s like a silent epic live story

nobody else knows, I will be enough for an afternoon and so will you.

The view is narrowing

over time

to a faraway horizon

and the steps it takes

between heartbeats

The sound of a heater

has pushed out

birdsong

for now, but memory

fills in the gaps of warbling

A few wisps of hair

don’t diminish shared smiles

or intrude much

upon a kiss

when it’s so necessary

Old fingers plucking

the air in the shape of

a lover sculpted

from memory

and just as moveable

A gathering of chatter

between cells,

an exciting chemistry

and it’s home

wherever we choose

There is no burden

of faking light

in the moments

we connect

Somehow,

the whole atmosphere twists

as we sort of levitate

and laugh together

You have painted

our colors many times

but maybe not blended

and without the sense of relief

I cannot seem to choose

where to end a sentence

because we are so open

to more more more

Long lights

across our tundra

with little worry

for the cold