Poetry

Get to know me in another way…

A small collection of love notes

Carry me on your raindrop cloak,

pulled together by the pressing wind.

Carry me over the creek and into the canyon.

Drop me into a secondhand bird’s nest in the 

tallest tree you can find. 

Cover me in a blanket of needles and watch

as the storm curls their fingered edges to wrap my body.

Sing to me while I sleep here; a creation song.

I - amalgamated water and branch, matted hair and cracked shells, molded to the shape of the wind reaching for itself.

Impressionable.

The grit of bliss

pressed on a seam and

flirting with the tear,

and some part of me has already ripped it 

open, soaking in the

bacchanale of the moment,

And every day, a step on this 

spiral staircase with breathtaking views

and this drop of paint 

feeling l’appel du vide

to fall into the lushness of the landscape and know,

fleetingly, hypnotically, what it is to be in the

gradient of an aspen tree.

Potentiality pulling at a slip knot

A rapidly unfolding pulse casts my

Crocus-like body into the recollection of its germination

And this undelicate initiation enfolds me in fertile ground -

My becoming body is an offering that does not need 

Gentleness, but the softness of a cocoon’s dissolution, 

A re-membering in which the fragility of an ‘I’ cedes to a 

Reclamation of emptiness -

Embodiment eternalized in manifestation’s ache.

You, in the depths of your relearning

in a known sensuality rocked by some things entirely new

a body gone to the cosmos and back

resounding with the pulse of the ancestral mother

reoccupying the pathways of a solo traveler

a discordant mix - 

I have never seen you so beautiful,

laying, soft on the floor

filled with the breath of a slow unearthing

a quiet reclamation, an unyielding resolution

to know this

boundless, planetary being

to touch this 

shapeshifting cacophony 

this constellation of celestial burning 

bound to dance inside of your skin.

The void is a library cataloged in a language unknown to me, and

our tongues play for dominance

amongst luminescent doorways offering no indication of

what’s behind.

I grasp for my anchor and find that 

I’ve tossed it from my form.

It carries me forward on a gravity with no equation, and

I cascade through the density,

unraveling and painting myself in ever-deeper hues.

Finding myself in this becoming body is a prayer;

a ritual of listening, of locating the chasm and ripping its seams,

sinking into the softness of a new sensing,

and softening towards the repetition of this flight.