o sweet spontaneous earth

2012-01-05T23:01:00.002-05:00

let this -

this letting go,

this refusing to give into the affections,

this walking away from the affections that are not you,

this little death in me,

let this be an offering unto you.

and let you,

you who are Love,

you who are abounding in richness,

you who is rich in cattle and rich in grace,

let you pour through.

2011-10-31T13:38:00.002-04:00

it is always in october that i

feel it the most.

the tugging on my nerves

to tell me that there should be a breeze,

or when my neck gently reminds me

to bundle up.

and this day, on the last of october,

i feel it strongest.

my bones grew strong with east coast iron,

and know nothing of the search for gold

or red dirt clay.

my bone knows how to walk quickly,

my bones only know how to walk quickly,

stopping only for traffic or the sudden gaze

on a red maple.

i must look upon the face of new york again,

i must drink in the atlantic grey soon.

2011-10-03T16:42:00.002-04:00

----
the train station where i picked you up & you hugged me & told me I was real and I wanted you to kiss me, to prove that she wasn't.
there are so many pigeons, still. reminding me of that same day.
funny how pigeons can remind me of something so important. perhaps that was the beginning of this thing that i'm putting back together now.
----
my legs feel unsure in California among so mountains.

2011-07-29T02:03:00.002-04:00

poets say it better /

than i know how to.

2011-07-29T01:59:00.003-04:00

there are little things,

that may for a while,

or a long time,

make me cry.

like you.

like all of the hope i have stored up in you.

like knowing that you are discovering the

combination of vegetables and your favorite meal.

and knowing what such a discovery may mean:

there is relief.

tour de force

2011-07-13T17:16:00.003-04:00

you were not a choice, as much as you were a force that ran up and down my fingers, up and down my spine.

you were not so much a choice, as a chance wind, overtaken, swept up and left ravished dizzy and dazed.

and this was not so much yesterday as years ago but we are all still left collecting thoughts and examining why's of your tour.

and you are betrothed now, or perhaps you wear a thin strip of gold around your finger, right or left hand, depending on the custom.

and he now shudders at your name, even when heard, even when read in the holy book, to think of --

and here i am choosing a man worthy of choice. and it is slower and less like violent love and more like the slow unfolding of a story written in springtime, written in meadows, written for blooming.

and we walk in seasons of night and day and winters and spring. and you were august, hot and melting, and he is april, subtle and unfolding.

i am not so happy for so many changes, so many days letting him sit with me as i sew back together the tears of my inner linen.

he gives me silk.

but, i am happy for the choice. the moments of brief clarity sitting and choosing: this is how i shall live.

i shall live in silk.

vegetable garden

2011-05-07T15:26:00.003-04:00

i have found that love

is nothing like what i thought it would be.

rather,

an unglamorous

tugging and tearing of wills

a gentle laying down,

a fierce laying down.

a vegetable garden -

only a couple of sprouts

to indicate the carrots

we are waiting to feast on.

labor on, the soil is ripe

and the harvest rains

are pouring down.

2011-02-21T04:57:00.002-05:00

she just believes in him. there wasn't any other explanation she could offer.

a mother, a lover, a friend.

she couldn't help but see all the glory just ready to burst forth.

wait for it. hold your breath and wait for it.

kingdom.

2011-02-16T19:01:00.004-05:00

i am aching for heaven.

my bones cry out

with the rocks and the sea

for the return of glory,

for the fullness of glory.

my bones, twisted around my muscles

bend with weary burdens

from an undone world.

i am aching for heaven

in the tender depths

of my heart i cry out for more.

bridegroom,

take me beyond the hills

and let us sit under the tree

and whisper.

my affections bend and sway

and my eyes dart to see who is coming.

i want your eyes, beloved,

the singleness of your presence,

the sweet songs of your voice.

in the land of the broken,

i ache for heaven.

to sit at your feet, beloved

and hear the thunder clap at

the command of your voice.

to see your words flow out of

your mouth like ribbon

and wrap themselves around weary hearts

and bent over bodies

and watch life come forth.

i ache for life

when nothing is wrong

save the dull sickness that

i have felt since i first

felt your presence -

how much clearer life is when

your spirit is near -

how much sickness we have

that we never knew.

and spirit, come near.

i need more kingdom in my bones.

2011-02-12T20:59:00.004-05:00

i am being covered in the holy spirit.

the slightest breeze knocks me over.

get back! get back!

liars, thieves, serpents get back!

don't take me one step too far

from the holy of holies.

i am being bathed in purity - bath water for the soul.

glory be.

2011-02-10T17:47:00.002-05:00

submission is no longer a dirty word.

the sunshine makes me want to clean house.

i eat raw cookie dough after work.

beach culture inspires me to be to be dignified,

a lady in a crowd,

a scarf around her head.

submission is no longer a dirty word.

glory be, glory be.

canopied in purple

2011-02-03T22:11:00.003-05:00

the streets now

are lined with trees

blooming purple.

(i've never seen purple trees

before i moved to California.)

the streets are canopied

in purple and

i walk underneath them

with a contradictory sense

of euphoria

and nostalgia,

a pleasant and strange mix

of dreaming and

desperately wanting to go back home.

in the dream,

i have a home.

the walls are crooked

the plaster is uneven

there are dents in the wood

from children we've never met.

in my dream, we have children,

three, daughters.

we walk down the street canopied in purple

in search of an ice cream cone because

in january it is still warm enough for

an ice cream cone as long as there is also

chocolate fudge.

because we determined long ago

to teach them to believe in magic.

that home would be first a fantasy,

and then a stability,

and then, only when necessary,

a place where we pay bills.

and even then, we pay them in the park.

and it is magic to eat ice cream on an idle tuesday,

the same idle tuesday we got married on,

when there is nothing else to celebrate.

and our children will play pretend

and live out stories and

we will add props and glitter

but never the cold hard truth

that the love letters we write in the park

to distant princes

are really just men in suits with square faces

called Insurance and Mortgage.

and they will think that their insurance is our arms

and our mortgage is our bed.

2011-01-23T19:06:00.002-05:00

how can i love your presence so much?

be so hungry for your filling in even in the midst of eating?

what good bread you give,

what good bread you are.

my dear.

2011-01-18T02:03:00.005-05:00

my dear,

for you i will write words

that i hope will move mountains.

i will write words for you

to feel through,

to feel the words through.

my dear, there are no

mountains i would not move to get to you.

to get you to somewhere safe.

i would level the earth

and fold the maps

and draw lines with my

feet and my toes in the sand

until the point between where you are

and where i am

is the shortest possible distance,

until we are in a straight line,

facing each other.

there is no condemnation in the sand.

my dear, i would face you and

face your fears for you.

i would hold your face as you face

demons that have haunted you and

i would watch your face,

those chiseled features, those dark accents,

win.

your face wins.

my dear, there is victory in your face,

your face that has been spit on

and tormented and lain face down in the mud,

it is victorious.

there is no blemish on you.

and if i cannot get to you,

if maps don't fold countries,

if planes aren't strong enough

to carry the heaviest weight of the strongest compassion,

the sleep that i have lost

and the tears that i have wept

for you.

the steadfast love that i have chosen for you,

then i will find every good soul that i know

and we will swarm you.

i will usher armies of love to barrage you.

i will build barriers around you.

you will be quarantined by safety.

i will fight all of the battles that your words speak.

i will arrange trains to take you north.

i will buy you bolts and chains

and my dear, i will never call you shameful.

i will never call you ugly.

because, my dear,

you are hope.

i have given you my hope

and it wells and bubbles within you

and hope wins.

and love never fails.

and, my dear,

you have drowned

and you have fallen

into the deepest,

most single place of life.

and life is not death.

and you are alright.

babygirl, you are okay.

weep, babygirl, you're going to make it.

and the lines that are chiseled in your jaw,

and the specks that sit in your eyes,

and the brows that embolden your face,

the have no failure written in them.

my dear,

there is so much hope for you yet.

7

2011-01-10T03:36:00.002-05:00

on the seventh day,
she rested.
a sabbatical, a break,
a pause, an interlude,
from writing poems
until they begin to write her.
until they find her.
words now sound like a vengeful G-D
struggling to maintain his vengeance.

and i, a lady,
have no anger,
and lately have not much else
but tiredness
and yearning
and hope
for YHWH
who saves and comes
with mercy.

to fast,
withhold,
remove myself
from food and men
and the drink of our labor
in order to be ripened,
made acceptable,
soft and malleable
to his whims.
and it is a silence
and a submission
and a trial.

but, there are no poems
bursting forth.

and, why try for what isn't working?
it is always easier to go with the current
than fight against it.
remember that
when all instincts say fight
because it hurts.
it is only learning a new way.
a new language,
set of mannerisms,
behaviors,
and boundaries.
it is only readjusting to a new truth
that just wasn't so clear before.

he is really that worth it,
my heart is really that sick.

and healer, Jehovah-Rapha,
a great physician,
has quarantined his patient
and slowly,
submission.
a gentle hope
to be a gentle patient.

because,
secret whispers wonder
what this heart could be
if set set set aflame.
if it was laughing
with heaven's joy.

and heaven can't be such a dull
place because the bridegroom
is calling his bride home
and she is wild.
and she has never quite
been able to sit still
like the bitter told her to.
she leaps at the sight of her lover.
she can't keep a proper posture
when there is so much
divine satisfaction flowing through
her broken cracks.

and, she can feel them closing.
she can feel new skin growing.

and what a good church,
untame and in love.
and what a good heart,
laughing and in love.

and so her words will
sit for a while waiting for
the promises to flow again.
and happy to know that in
the hardest choices his
presence confirms the
loudest yes
to the the greatest proposal.

(you are already a bride.)

6.

2011-01-08T19:53:00.003-05:00

we climb mountains

and search for grace.

we wear rugged our clothes

and tell about our scars

in hopes that the honesty

breaks any chance of judgement.

who will condemn us when

we can do it ourselves?

we find strangers in our bedrooms,

and in the rush of some kind of scandal

forget to mention we were never there.

the feeling finds us even when we're innocent.

the feeling of shame almost covers us.

and we climb mountains

and search for grace.

we hold close the whispers that tell us

he will never condemn us.

5.

2011-01-05T02:21:00.002-05:00

his absence is felt

most strongly in day three.

i am told that in the

third day

of not smoking

the body begins to ache.

sick from without

the drugs that carried

blood cells to heart

and oxygen to lungs.

i imagine that

it is after

three days

that the top layers

of comfort and pleasantries

peel off only to reveal addiction.

lungs and hearts

sick from the realization

that they cannot live

without this nicotine.

death has been in them

too long and they do not

quite know how to rid themselves of it.

it is so blatant,

so obvious to say,

but addiction runs too deep,

cuts us out so raw

that i think it takes

three days

to withdrawal.

it takes three days to

rid the heart and the lungs

of all of the dusty residue

they might feed off of.

organs like crack addicts

licking the payment

looking for a crystal dropped.

three days to feel the want,

to feel the absence at its strongest.

4.

2011-01-03T14:38:00.002-05:00

the rain has not stopped for days.

we wake up with it pouring

and we are locked inside.

the rain has taught us something

about hiding.

we wake up and we are cold.

we wake up and we are thirty

and we sings songs of drink.

we have pruned ourselves for winter,

cut back our useless limbs

and our deadened skin.

we shrink back in winter,

and sing songs of drink.

we wake up and are thirsty.

the rain has not stopped for days

we wake up and its pouring.

the rain has taught us something

about growing.

we wake up and we are green.

3.

2010-12-31T18:21:00.001-05:00

connecticut soil is made of rocks.

when we used to dig to make way for the tomatoes,

we built ourselves castles from the rocks.

granite ontop of granite

for peaks and glory and i am the princess.

i am the glory girl.

there were even enough left

over to build the hedge which came

right before the moat

and the draw bridge that

is only let down after a

collection of magic words

spun together is said with his eyes.

they used to call me repunzel.

the used to comment on my hair

blonde and long and strong

and wonder who might climb

up that braid

and crawl over the crown of my head

and up and down the mountains

and valleys of my ear

and into its drum

and suddenly inside.

they used to wonder who might have the strength.

2.

2010-12-28T23:17:00.003-05:00

(a poem a day

becomes not quite a poem a day

when there are no poems

running through the day.)

1.

2010-12-26T01:19:00.004-05:00

i hope-

i hope that you meant it.

i hope that you meant it when

you said that you forget -

when you said that the east and west

could not touch

and neither could your heart and my dust.

i am covered in dust.

i am covered in sin-dust like layers

of skin-dust scratching off with my fingernails.

i am itchy.

i am itchy from sin

get me out of this winter

get me out of this easy

get me out of this body that's covered in skin-dust

that so easily knows where to go and how to find it.

i hate it.

bathe me.

send me into the ocean

and sink me under

and pull me out and

clean me.

use oil and rose hip and

consecrate me.

i hope.

i hope that you meant it.

i hope that you still mean it,

that you still want me,

that you still mean it when you said

are faithful.

2010-11-25T15:03:00.000-05:00

i will love you until i don't anymore.

2010-11-18T01:10:00.001-05:00

it seems that the closer i get to going home the more i ache for it.

you left a hole in me, you carved it yourself.

, easy girl

2010-11-17T19:13:00.003-05:00

there seems to be such a continuous going until the final command to stop. i long for the heavy hand gripped on my shoulder, easy girl. when the heavy yokes weigh too much, i cast off the lightest one first. easy girl, slow down.

, easy girl.

how can we do anything else?

2010-11-16T21:58:00.003-05:00

we talk in whispered wishes

late at night

when we remember

that some of what we invested in

must die.

like seeds planted and

turned over

in hopes of a newer, fuller crop.

we sowed in love

and we are reaping in regret

because the returns will

take longer this year.

and, really, what it might mean

is that we lived in hopes of life

and are having to reconcile death

in the midst of it.

and how can we look at the death of love

and keep our hearts from dying too?

how can we do anything else?

it is when

2010-11-16T21:29:00.003-05:00

it is when the air is supposed to change

and instead of cool breezes

and i sit in the sun, too hot.

it is when i wish to be cold

that i wish to be warmed

be someone other than myself

and the lonely sun.

it is when i am not home,

for the first time i am not home,

to see the seasons change or

to feel the holidays advance

on us like soldiers,

window after window,

that i wish for my own -

that i am aching for my own.

it is when i am tired,

when my thoughts

and spirit are sinking

from the weight of independence

and higher impossible seeming dreams,

and a terrible loneliness

when i am tired of on-guard conversations

that i regret.

that i wish you were waiting to greet me.

but, brooklyn is not paris.

brooklyn is not paris.

2010-11-15T20:32:00.003-05:00

I am a woman waiting for her lover to come home from the war.

I nest, creating a space for him to come home to.

In this perfect rearranging I am trying to woo him home,

to convince him that I have grown up,

that I am ready now.

unmoving.

2010-11-02T02:50:00.003-04:00

i spent the day unravelling.

unpacking.

undoing.

unmoving.

i spent the day inside the same four walls.

i spent the day in stillness carefully laying

memorized mementos in their proper place.

my home travels with me.

no matter where i am there is a hummingbird and

there are red beads strung on the wall.

i feel old in this place. i feel treasured.

settled, settling in,

i am tired of the past.

i look up to my map,

the line drawn across it.

this is where i came from.

this is where i went.

i am tired of the past.

for now, i am here,

it is of no concern where i was.

the eastwardly mountains

and westwardly sea enclose me.

i stand still.

i do not desire to be anywhere else.

California

2010-10-26T23:59:00.004-04:00

Those that call California young

have not met California.

Those that scoff at the plastic faces

plastered on all of our advertisements

have not met a farmer, seen the lines on his face,

nor shaken his hand missing fingers.

Those that call California young

have not met California.

She wears her age in her dirt.

Old vine Zinfandel growing for 100 years,

evergreen oak tree's roots reaching deep

into the soil and the brick.

Even her roots look like bark.

California wears her age in her dust

circling us and settling on antique hearts.

And I sit and pause on her piers,

looking out onto the rocks the take the

beating of the ocean.

And I wonder if when the Spirit, resting on the

earth without form and void,

if he rested longer on this place.

So carefully, oak trees look like fathers

poised on the rolling hills -

our protectors.

So gently, hills look like mothers

guiding us home -

our comforters.

Those that call California young

have not met California.

The earth is so old here it makes me

wonder if we even belong-

intruding on sacred spacial history.

2010-10-24T02:39:00.001-04:00

everyday i think about leaving with greater reluctance. who knew all this could be so amazing. who know it was just what i needed.

roots growing.

gentle man.

2010-10-24T02:34:00.003-04:00

with all of the kisses i

regret not giving to your

perfect pink lips hidden

underneath the layers of your

gentle beard comes this:

one thousand i love yous with every breath.

one thousand i love yous i longed to pour over you

with one thousand i love yous.

and i was always holding them back and holding my breath.

and this i learned:

a true gentle man is known by his beard.

2010-10-18T13:50:00.000-04:00

pins and needles climbing through my spine.

i cry out.

healing. please bring your healing.

2010-10-18T03:50:00.001-04:00

"Madame, I answered, even in this world, the slightest thing, a mere stroke, can make us cease to know the people whom we've loved best of all."

- the diary of a country priest.

2010-10-18T03:32:00.004-04:00

let me love you, that's all i'm asking you.

let me love you.

and how you didn't know i leaped

and agreed yes

and how you didn't know all my protests

were paper walls for you to knock down.

challenges.

how we failed.

how i could have submitted to you in all the vastness

of that word that i do not understand.

and how you could have loved me in all the ways

that took too much out of you.

love, in such ways, exhausts.

and now, the grand disconnect.

submitting to the iron rules that i have submitted upon myself.

and how unknowing leaves every uncomfortable movement

left to know alone.

and how many thoughts drift towards your knowing,

and remember,

they cannot be acknowledged without a fight.

and what a miserable scene,

when such an experiment of loving

turns so bitter.

(and i make no apologies for being so vocal and wearing so many hearts on my sleeve. i make no apologies for hearts spilling over into open-air life. this is life. we live it. these things are so mixed-up-hard in my head.)

only truth, it is that saddest thing to unknow you. i sat today, aware of the saddness.

unknowing may just be the opposite of loving.

2010-10-17T00:35:00.001-04:00

james is coming.

a single man.

an arm around me.

a single woman.

friends to see.

so much life is always happening.

we fight.

we would love if we didn't fight.

we fight, still.

we fright from lack of love.

i am going.

a single man.

2010-10-06T11:31:00.001-04:00

i want all of my words to come true in my heart.

Comfort

2010-10-03T23:42:00.002-04:00

This is one of the nights that I slide into music

like I am sliding into beer.

And I sit atop of my bed, perched,

waiting for the words to come

as I am sliding into feeling.

And this is one of the nights that I imagine laying next to you.

My neck always fit so perfectly in your arm.

And your warmth made January easier.

This is one of the nights when I am cold.

This is all for comfort's sake.

This is all because I want some comfort from so much sleeping alone.

2010-09-26T21:26:00.004-04:00

this much i am beginning to learn:

i have perhaps never loved a day in my life.

or, maybe slightly more accurate,

and perhaps a bit generous as well,

there probably haven't been more than ten people

i have loved in a fashion worthy of is name.

and, from this realization comes another,

i have no idea who he really his,

or what love looks like at all.

2010-09-24T19:18:00.001-04:00

you. you. you. you. you.

more. more. more. more.

YHWH.

less. less. less. less.

me. me. me. me. me.

pure heart. clean hands.

Joshua.

simple heart prayers.

grace.

2010-09-20T13:37:00.003-04:00

I've got six minutes to write.

and then i must get up and keep going.

going, going.

i wonder, this morning,

how peter, james, and john

felt sitting at the bottom of the mountain,

bewildered,

as their beloved wept on top of the mountain,

in agony.

i wonder if they were ashamed of their ignorance.

i wonder other things too:

how long did it take for the woman behind the line

to break her promise,

"go and sin no more?"

how many minutes from his kind eyes

to her next relapse into the

life she taught herself

by routine and such steady practice:

five husbands and a couple of lovers.

i wonder these things as my eyes

well up with tears thinking that

his mercies are new every morning,

that his kindness leads me to repentance,

that I have taught myself rebellion for twenty-two long years,

and now I am tired.

and now I see grace in submission,

so much so that I would wear a scarf on my head

if it would beckon you to come faster.

if it would woo you into my heart

to replace my cavities with gold.

so lovesick, am i, that I might just do anything you asked me to.

though your simple request to

go and sin no more

seems more impossible than all the rest.

and for this, i pray grace.

"Then give me grace to rise and follow Thee up from this misty lowland where I have wandered so long"

at the end you run towards me.

2010-09-18T00:14:00.004-04:00

i remember the first time your foot touched my foot.

you place yours upon mine so gently,

as though you didn't mean to,

though you tapped to a rhythm so very gently.

as if to remind me that you were there and i was near you.

the reminder served me well.

it was, perhaps, the first time

that i thought you could be a man

and i could be a woman.

by the end i knew what kind of a man you were

and what kind of woman i had become.

and now there are times

when i wake up with anxious fretful breaths.

i was running towards you and away from you.

passing, as quick as i could in front of you,

yet, afraid.

you pay no mind.

she put it into simple words,

i was as if i was leaving and wanted you to notice,

to be upset,

even to say goodbye.

and today i was in california ontop of a mountain

and he whispered,

at the end you run towards me.

2010-09-15T02:39:00.002-04:00

i am waiting.

you keep telling me this is good.

it is good for me to wait.

as long as you wait with me,

i will wait.

even for you, my Lord,

even for you I will wait.

(but, if heaven tastes anything like your presence, take me there now.)

2010-09-14T23:16:00.003-04:00

jesus loves paris and paris will love jesus again!

jesus is a faithful lover and paris is another israel who will return to her groom!

jesus is a faithful lover who has not abandoned his bride! he has not abandoned his city!

jesus is the light and he belongs in the city of lights!

this is what i spend my time believing for.

his love is not so weak, he is not too weak for paris.

2010-09-11T03:56:00.000-04:00

paris,

you are still so deep in my heart, i cannot get you out.

named by you

2010-09-11T03:38:00.003-04:00

i cry out in whispers,

carve out space inside of my heart.

in the moldy and rotten caverns,

in the dark places stained

with bitter memories and

so much remorse and so much anger,

in the places of shame that

covered me with impurities

leaving me to question

whether or not they chose the wrong name

twenty two years ago,

in the feeling of hands where they do not belong

that come back in the phantom nerves

i cannot seem to forget.

carve out those dark places,

and clothe me in your holiness.

and i will look like your daughter.

and i will walk, named by you,

pure and innocent,

katherine.

a sinner's anxious prayer.

2010-09-08T02:58:00.004-04:00

this isn't about doing more,

acting more good.

this is about i am sick with sin

and i need you to rip out my heart

and give me your gold one

so i can be well.

so i can be healthy.

i am sick with sin and your gold heart is the only antidote.

(and come quick! i am wreaking havoc and i do not know how to stop. i do not even know how to repent. i only know how to ask so weak please give me a new gold heart and a new bone spine to walk like you do. to love like you do. my fingers and my toes have walked away even all the while my eyes were longing for you.)

2010-09-07T04:25:00.001-04:00

i count it a failure, how few times i kissed you.

all the while, it was all that i could think of.

2010-09-05T04:16:00.002-04:00

if only your fingers and toes could follow your speech around.

what a man they'd make out of you, all headed in the same direction.

2010-08-31T20:55:00.002-04:00

tomorrow is september 1st.

a day rich with meaning only two people know.

i will not be going back soon.

2010-08-30T22:24:00.002-04:00

there are punches thrown in sleep.
and yelling and yelling and yelling.

where's the justice in shattered images?

(yesterday, he said he could work even this for good. even this anger. even this anxiety. even this troubled soul that's afraid to go home for fear of his eyes. what will they see this time? what will i? the reflection of an other woman, something i don't recognize)

2010-08-30T02:38:00.003-04:00

i'm not ready yet, i don't think.

so much sorrow, still,

those streets not being what they were only three months ago.

i'm not brave enough to go back without shaking in my sleep.

this may be the first autumn without any red.

2010-08-29T01:30:00.002-04:00

in the simplest way i long for home.

to come home.

to be home.

to find a home.

to settle.

new york, i wonder if i will see you this october,

leaves blazing one last time before the end.

i must live in thankfulness

2010-08-23T00:49:00.004-04:00

holy spirit energy running through my heart.

life is so good! there are so many good things here! so much! so much!

i must live in thankfulness, or else i might collapse from all my fleshly fears and anxiety and heartbreak. i like in thankfulness of the hills and the gold and the fog and the holy spirit energy running through my heart.

fog

2010-08-22T22:56:00.004-04:00

the fog, the fog.

this is what california is like:

in the mornings i wake up with the sun shyly saying hello.

the fog, on the way to work, covers the hills and

everything is like a tapestry,

covering the hills in chiffon,

with lights shining so sweetly behind.

i see the fog and i think of him.

i wonder what its like see him shrouded with glory

and shining and so magical.

its peaceful in the morning,

before we remember all that we're supposed to be.

the fog and the sun and all its shrouded glory.

its like the Lord lives here,

behind the mountains,

just close enough to catch his scent,

to see his shadow.

finishing a novel, finishing a friend.

2010-08-18T18:49:00.005-04:00

i read stories written so old and i hear in them my heart. there is comfort in jo's passion and her growing wisdom. comfort that this season of alone, though i chose it, will not always be. so funny, that stories can read me so clear. and i wish to part with trust in Goodness. it is over and i remember why it i hold it so close. older now, my lips tremble at the tender troubles of four little women. i know those troubles well, and hope that some do not come quickly to my feet. she said goodbye to her dear friend and found a more humble joy. i too, wish for the sweetness that bestows a woman in love.

a confession

2010-08-16T21:36:00.005-04:00

i have not looked into a man's eyes and felt love for a long while.

though, i have loved the still glances they give me.

amazed that such a woman might bestow such attention,

they watch from behind their glass of wine

as if fate has favored them and Aphrodite is here.

they gaze, and occasionally i match it,

carefully securing their hopes.

my Lord, i have been a liar.

2010-08-12T13:19:00.000-04:00

‎(I will build you up again and you will be rebuilt, O Virgin Israel.)

2010-08-11T18:12:00.005-04:00

and the L-RD says come away with me. and he sings over me a pure and holy song. and he tells me i am good and i am his.

he quotes jeremiah in my ear, The people who survive the sword will find favor in the desert; I will come to give rest to Israel. I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness. I will build you up again and you will be rebuilt, O Virgin Israel. Again you will take up your tambourines and go out to dance with the joyful. Again you will plant vineyards on the hills of Samaria; the farmers will plant them and enjoy their fruit.

and i learn to trust the promise of the L-RD, in the desert, forsaking all others, learning to love him.

and i, like the Virgin Israel, will again dance with the joyful. and I will be rebuilt. and he draws me in with loving kindness. for, i am just like Israel. i am just like Gomer. but, i will be redeemed. i will wear grace upon my head, like a crown made of wildflowers.

(and he knows just how much i like wildflowers)

2010-08-11T18:00:00.001-04:00

today i struggle to say that it's okay.

2010-08-10T21:13:00.001-04:00

i have so many my friends binding themselves to other friends.

i sit smiling.

i wait for great love.

ever changing.

2010-08-10T20:36:00.004-04:00

sometimes i wish to call you to remind you that i am still the same woman you met a long while ago, only, i have shifted and moved underneath the tide.

my heart, like sea glass, is evolving. ever smoothing, ever changing.

these mistakes that i make that you take so hard only end up as lines in my glass. and, as i am ever changing, ever smoothing, i expect one day you might look at them as a thing of beauty.

i wish to call you to remind you that once you looked upon me as a thing of beauty. though, i don't hope for the return of things past. i only hope that memories will be remembered well, that we might smile upon one another and nod, knowing, resolving.

you, though, do not want such reminders and you nod with your head dropped low. and i know i broke you. and i know i must leave and continue to change, ever so slightly, smoothing and evolving into a woman.

these days i hope for grace. to deserve the name woman. to wear it well on my head, crowned with forgiveness and beauty.

simplest prayer

2010-08-06T02:14:00.003-04:00

walking through the streets in the sunshine, she often prayed her simplest prayer. she did not intend to pray so often, these pleas merely slipped out in subtle sighs. she did not like to put paint on her face or hands. she knew nothing about smoothing out her hair. she wanted to look as pure as an open field. she wanted to look so pure, the feeling might seep into her heart. she walked down the street and prayed her simplest prayer: "I want to be pure. I want to be kind. I want to be good." If she could be good, she would be the loveliest girl even without any paint. she so earnestly hoped that one day she would be good.

2010-08-03T04:18:00.000-04:00

one day we won't remember all of this.

and i laugh

2010-07-31T02:26:00.002-04:00

this is not so much a poem as it is a way of life.

there are simple things that i am noticing.

the pace of life here is slower,

men are more humble,

women more beautiful.

it is as if they all know, almost instinctively, it isn't about them.

(these growers cannot will a vine to grow. these women cannot will the sun to shine)

they are all so dependent upon the earth.

and this world is different than the world in new york city.

where everything grew tall there, here we talk about the roots that stretch deep.

and, i laugh.

on the back of a motorcycle, head stretch back to see the stars and catch the wind in my mouth,

i laugh.

Blancetville

2010-07-27T20:09:00.002-04:00

Blancetville tastes like metal. My tongue grazes the roof of my mouth and along my lips, and I taste its distinct flavor. The faces here are sad and drained. There is too much iron in their skin weighing them down. We all feel weighed down as soon as we arrive, and we leave with lead in our hearts. Blancetville leaves us wanting. It’s easy to grow old here, even while I am very young.

Blancetville used to be a farm town, but there is little agriculture left. I wonder what the water has done to the land. The soil here is made of clay; crops struggle to take root and too often drown. When the rain comes, it puddles and ponds in fallow fields, and in the spring, just before it is time to plow, the dormant land on the outskirts of town grows wild with row after row of yellow mustard.

Daylight lasts longer than on the east coast. In the summertime night doesn’t come till nine or ten o’clock. There is something eerie in getting tired before the sun. We all try to outlast it, but we yawn into the sunset and stay awake just long enough to see the fireflies come out. The fireflies give us something to talk about. Something to hope for.

I can imagine my father growing up here. I can see him at six —sharp, independent, sly—riding around town on his bicycle, speeding past the long stretches of field that overwhelm the landscape, racing time to escape its toll. I see him twelve years old, golf clubs bound to the front of his bicycle, making his way to the junior country club to play a round with his pals. Or at age fourteen, coaching the Little League. It’s best to appreciate Blancetville through the eyes of someone else, someone too familiar with it to recognize its flaws, or at least familiar enough to forgive them.

We were there to visit. First my father’s parents, then my mother’s. It’d been a long time since I’d driven down the long straight roads. I learned to drive in this town, but once I learned I got behind the wheel and didn’t come back too often. There were too many other vacations to take, and I preferred roads in the mountains, places that kept me feeling young.

We sat around the kitchen table, drumming our fingers, waiting. There were five of us, each biding our time in different ways. Ethel made excuses for her son, and busily cleaned up after us. Randal, thankful this was not his problem, found ways to complain about it anyway. He may have married Ethel, but that didn’t make her son his. Debbie kept close to Ethel, coveting the rare time with her mother. My father and I left for a walk, hoping the time to leave would come soon. We casually placed bets on whether he would come at all.

Dean made his way in two hours late. I hadn’t seen him in fifteen years, and I looked him up and down with my critical New England eye. He sat with Debbie and Ethel, telling stories about his children, some of whom he hadn’t seen since his divorce. I looked for signs of myself in his face, but I could only see my brothers’ bone structure and gaunt build, my grandfather’s ears, Ethel’s nose. His hair, long and curly down his back, had dulled and greyed, but his thick mustache still burned. His skin freckled and tanned in the sun. There was no question he and Debbie were siblings, though the youthful joy in her eyes made her look the younger. No one would guess that she was the first, that she was ten years his senior. Dean wore time on his face.

As he talked I watched his hands shaking ever so subtly. He had short fingers like Debbie’s, but I’ve never seen a man with such thick fingers. His nails were longer than mine. I wondered what time had done to him. I wondered if he was tired from all that driving at night.

He tore at Randal's sense of propriety: “A mahn outta be’n contrul of ‘is huss,” Randal, ninety-one, mumbled and paced, disrespected by Deans hair. We first met Randal ten years ago, after he married Ethel. They had both been widowed. Ethel seemed to carry on fine alone, but Randal needed a wife to tend to him. There has never been another woman whose hands work in such precision. She is capable of nearly anything. In the old house, the red one she and her first husband built, she rode a lawn tractor to mow her five acres across her first lawn, down into the ditch of the creek, across the bridge, and out into the second lawn, carefully navigating around the grape vines. Then she made grape pepper jam for all of us. Her strength was always in her hands, in her deeds.

When the mower needed to be repaired, she called Randal. That is how they met. One day, in her garage, he looked at her and declared to himself, “I’m gunna marry that woman.” Three months later, he did. That was the one weakness I saw in Ethel: she was easily had.

Randal was old. In every way, he was old. And, for all of his purposes, he was always right. Ethel lost all of her freedom when she married Randal. We all knew she had the advantage, but he was the winner. Every winter, he came down with pneumonia and lay down, waiting for death. It never came. Every winter, Ethel was not permitted to leave the house; he could not stand the thought of dying alone. Sometimes, her guests could not stay. Sometimes, even her own children were not permitted to stay. Randal is so old he is even missing parts. When he was young he went to work in a factory, and at some point he lost two of his fingers on his left hand. This dominated my first impression of him. I reached out to shake the hand of this alien new grandfather, and my hand cupped too few fingers to understand.

I sat as a child in the midst of years of tension. Dean, oblivious to anything other than the memories of his divorce. Debbie, finally sitting across from her brother. Ethel, loving her children and appeasing her second husband. Randal fuming. My father and I caught each others’ eye. Comrades. Randal escaped in the other room to his chair, feeding bitterly on his oxygen. Unsatisfied, he came back in, stood at the door, then at the wall, then by the sink, and back to his chair. I could hear his breathing thick and loud as though he was underwater, slowly losing control.

Ethel excused herself. From the other room I could hear Randal’s indignation. The sounds were mostly muffled, but I caught the key words. Dean had long hair. He did not look enough like a man. Dean was not a good enough man. Dean was late and he had long hair. Randal could not forgive such crimes. Men and women each had a proper place. Dean was out of place. I heard Ethel crying, “They’re here to visit me!” Quieted, but undeterred, Randal sat back in his chair. Ethel came back, blocking all troubles, listening to her son. She knew it had not been easy for him. She wished the way had been simpler. We all wished that for Dean.

In the midst of it, I looked up at my father. He may always be a bit of a mystery to me. I imagine at his funeral he will be missed by all, but understood by few—he is known for his silence and his boldness. His silence has often been maddening to me; but I have found that he is good at both creating tension and resolving it. Some of my favorite memories are of him smoothing away my nerves and fears. I find the most peace in his authoritative, subtle interceptions. His voice and reason enter the middle of an explosive situation and defuse it. I’ve come to trust his calm.

And so I watched him. Almost without thought he got up. He walked away from us without a word, went into the other room, and absorbed Randal’s storm. And Debbie sat with her brother and her mother. And I thought, by all comparison, my father is a very good man.

2010-07-26T14:00:00.002-04:00

i wish i had words.

the only promises of faithfulness found are written to Israel.

one thousand years old.

2010-07-23T20:51:00.003-04:00

i saw your eyes and felt one thousand years old.
you, too, looked one thousand years old.
in them was my history and a future disregarded for older hopes.
i saw both beginnings and endings in that blue crystal,
your dark empty space staring into mine.
you read my history, and helped write it i suppose.
there are lines in these eyes carved out by you.

in such short breaths, we have tangled our tiny nerves in cracks and spaces;
lungs and ribs coming together from two different puzzles.
knotted, i leave and you come;
you stay and i follow.
we are neither there, nor here.
we are certainly not alone nor together.
we rip and break one another's bones,
adding more to replace what already didn't fit.
we are a bone pile, collected through these years.

such a long life to live in such a short amount of time.
you are my old soul,
and i, for a time, brought youth to your tired heart,
and you to mine,
until i could not take it any longer.
i, too, have grown an old soul.
i recognize life too well, though i have never lived it before.

you could not come, even if i asked you to.
there are the children in your heart to tend to.
and then there is this:
i can not be she whom you've dreamed of.
i do not belong in your dreams.

so i break your bones, give your old soul one more tear.
and you leave cracks and hollow caves in these lungs.
i look at those eyes and wonder how such a tender glance could leave such a hole.
but such a hole it left.

go now, make room for her. sweep out my dust,
don't save any in jars sitting on the window sill,
don't let her know what's written in those years, written deep in the cracked walls.
and i, too will go. i will run into the mountains, hidden, protected, healing,
quietly remembering those eyes.

2010-07-12T02:42:00.001-04:00

with an army all around me i am as strong as the L-RD.

alone, i am weak and trembling.

did it take me coming back for you to leave?

did you need to go?

don't go, don't go,

get on a plane and rescue me.

carpenter

2010-07-06T19:22:00.004-04:00

of the most impossible things there is impossible news.

and all of this shall pass and it will all be over within a reasonable time

until then, the impossibility of forgetting and remembering and wondering

if it was all the right thing to do.

and yet there is a bluebird in my heart waiting for a carpenter to build a birdhouse in an oak tree.

until then, i will sing you songs that make you think of all that you've ever wanted anyway.

until then, i will envy all of those other promises that almost sound like they are for me.

and i will hope that you are a carpenter who lives by an oak tree just waiting for me to perch on your branch.

and i hope that you will give me wings.

2010-07-03T16:40:00.001-04:00

and in the morning we hang our sheets on the line in the sunshine.

and i imagine that i am floating and there is nothing but light and white and pure laundry.

this is my favorite time of day.

leaving

2010-06-01T21:55:00.003-04:00

it isn't all of leaving that's hard. there are only parts that hit my heart so deep and hard. the beginning - all of them lined up waving as i left. and where am i going? this is one of the hard parts about leaving. i'm not so sure where it is that i'm going.

but then it was easy again. mountains! mountains! friends, hope, prayer, release. there are so many places and faces here and so much to love. i picked her up and we laugh, we laugh.

the worst part about leaving is that i am always leaving. there isn't one decision and then its over. in every state i'm leaving and in every state i'm not turning around. there are so many people and so many hearts. and there are oceans on either side.

did we know that we would leave so much unfinished business? did we know that leaving would be so continual?

i didn't know, i didn't know.

summer music.

2010-05-21T14:49:00.003-04:00

summer came today.

i could feel it in the roots of my hair.

i was warmed and

it seemed that in the sun my shield melted.

there has been a lot of driving lately

in preparation for the driving that will come.

and in driving and in listening to summer music

all of a sudden summer's emotions come flooding back.

driving route 84 east, i was not in connecticut,

but a different coastal state breathing the breeze from a different coast.

i had not thought of it with such emotion in a long while.

and i drove along,

alone this time,

with the same yearning and loss that music carried last year.

and i wanted those notes to carry you through my veins

and i don't think of it too often because emotions can be too strong,

and sometimes words fail, and i can't keep the chord long enough to satisfy.

but if i ever meet you again, i will tell you i finally understand.

the heart cannot be forced to fall in love,

even when it wants to,

even when there's a very good case to.

and, though it broke me a thousand times,

i understand.

2010-05-21T14:46:00.002-04:00

it is difficult to think in poetry and prose at the same time.

2010-05-15T15:08:00.002-04:00

the space echoes in me.

the midwest.

2010-05-15T14:54:00.002-04:00

i stare out the window counting field after field of mustard weed.
we drove and saw the earth turn over and over on itself.
after fourteen hours we stopped; still looking for a home, we stopped to rest.

what is it about the midwest that leaves me feeling so empty?
the space is too -- looking out, i feel lost.
for the first time in a year, i long.

this is nothing like a crowded city.

what do i use to orient myself?
words, people, time, place.
i am still looking for a home.

graduation

2010-05-08T14:26:00.004-04:00

after it was all over, she went back to the dishes. still in her antique dress, she scrubbed them to prepare for next time. that was always her impulse - draw attention to the forgotten and shrug off the ceremonious. she didn't know if it was admirable. she didn't know what it all meant. there was so much fuss for the end. rather, she wanted to know something really very simple.

had she done well? is she loved?

can she love?

and it seemed to her, as she scrubbed the last bit of counter top, that a 'Yes' would deserve accolades upon accolades.

2010-04-11T11:33:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning with the words of a lonely man running through my head.

2010-03-09T10:32:00.002-05:00

and in this way,

new york makes the world smaller.

there are so many people gathered

in such small places.

the world comes crashing in-

i go in search of a bigger world.

seasonless

2010-03-09T10:19:00.003-05:00

seasons in new york change in a day.

there is no snow gathered in mounds

following my front walkway ,

leading me from the street to my home,

ushering me from the door to the fire.

there is no snow to indicate the passing of time

from christmas to easter,

from january to march,

from winter to spring.

there is no snow to remind us that we live in

days and seasons;

we live in time.

with the absence of the elements stretching from

one day to the next,

indicating continuity,

our days are isolated.

rhythm becomes the beat of the trains

and the horns of the cars,

but we do not understand that life passes

in seasons and in time.

that one day i will grow old like my mother is growing old

like my grandmother grew old.

that one day i will bury my lover in the field where we first lay

in springtime when our love was new.

I will lay him down again in spring, to mark the fullness of life

in the fullness of a year,

in the fullness of a season.

and one day, i will be buried underneath the field where i first conceived

a thought that i could love.

i do not know it yet.

there is no field here for me to go fresh and sweet to be undone.

there is no mark of death in this place.

only the steady pulse of the same age

for ages.

there is no labor to tell me that i must work for the food i eat.

only the steady pulse of tired hands and hearts.

and spring came in a day.

and will leave in a day.

and there is no more thought of winter,

there is no more snow to remind us what was,

and what will be.

2010-02-05T11:41:00.000-05:00

Left untended, a broken heart leads to a dull heart. Scar tissue loses feeling. It is harder to worship without healing. It is harder to love without blood.

I want to worship & I want to love.

2010-01-28T22:22:00.002-05:00

Is is possible to ask for love in every movement and whim of my hand, and still run from it? even at the mention of its name, my eyes dart toward the door.

2010-01-25T12:40:00.002-05:00

i stand with my foot in the door, keeping in ajar, saying over and over again, L-RD i will not forget you. Do not forget me either.

2010-01-11T00:51:00.001-05:00

wonder.

truth.

love.

security.

2009-12-21T00:23:00.002-05:00

sitting at home, i crave a home like never before.
tranistion leaves me walking exposed and unsettled and hidden until i find some covering.

cover my head and give me a home.

there she waits.

2009-12-20T16:12:00.003-05:00

There are many doors. Each door is different. The first is painted red, the colour of a barn. The next is yellow, the colour of a mustard. The third door is unfinished oak. There is a spot worn away by many years of banging. The handle is loose from so much prying. Beyond that door, the thickest and least inviting, there is a warm breeze. It is almost as if the guest enters the beach. The following door is a Dutch door; the top half is always open. Beyond that, there a screen, and then just a stone gate that leads to a garden. In the garden there is a swing and an oak tree standing tall. Rose vines trace the gate. In the garden there sits a woman on a rocking chair. Her hair is gold and her eyes hold secret sorrows. She appears worn out and ready, both at the same time.

Each door requires a different skeleton key. This makes it difficult. She likes to watch them try to search inside her words. Her words always give a clue to the next entrance. She never inteded to have so many riddles, it only just happened this way. if happened after gate was first built. Riddles make games among friends. They increase in difficulty as the door increase in width. The red door is almost immovable. Sometimes, from loneliness, she calls out the answer to the first riddle. Too many thick doors cancel the sound.

There she waits.

she

2009-12-14T17:35:00.007-05:00

she especially liked closing her eyes when she rode her bicycle, and opening them while she curled into fetal position under water tumbling in circles. she pictured her pores opening into an infinite number of holes, ready to absorb the world. she liked being the only one in a field of flowers. she liked imagining, and she liked listening to the same song on repeat, hoping to strike the initial chord of sorrow that told her as a human being she was meant to find something.

but, she found it difficult to look them in the eyes. there were thousands at this point. she thought it lonely to look at so many people and still be just one person. she found it difficult to always be searching.

she felt the loneliness in her bones, and so, naturally, she wanted to follow it. maybe its source would be its end. the loneliness was so familiar it was almost a comfort. it made her want the desert. it made her want the ocean.

i want to learn to write truth.

2009-12-05T23:53:00.002-05:00

"do not tell me words are useless when written language has been the most poignant and timelessly powerful form of communication know to man." (unknown)

"You see I am trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across - not to just depict life—or criticize it—but to actually make it alive. So that when you have read something by me you actually experience the thing. You can't do this without putting in the bad and the ugly as well as what is beautiful. Because if it is all beautiful you can't believe in it." (hemingway)

"I really believe the addict-the sex or the drug addict-is closer to the deepest truth than the mere moralist. I think the addict is looking for the very best thing in some of the very worst places. He's looking for heaven; he's looking for a transcendence of self-consciousness and moral responsibility; he's looking for the state of mind that the saints in heaven have and the mystics have for brief moments on earth." (kreeft)

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” (hemingway)

2009-11-30T01:09:00.000-05:00

i am fragile and frantic and wanting some covering for my unprotected head.

2009-11-27T02:10:00.002-05:00

i don't think new york needs to be so lonely.

but these days, my bones grind against themselves

and leave me like dust.

i need the pacific, and its oil to my joints,

and its peace to my self.

I'm a lefty

2009-11-23T01:47:00.003-05:00

it's a little bit like being judged for my penmanship when i'm only allowed to use my right hand. everything feels awkward and uneasy in front of a crowd of faces i adore, and want to impress.

i don't like putting out so many words and winding up so naked. i don't like pouring so much self into molds and letting be dissected so sterilely.

what's worse, i am needy and afraid.

2009-11-15T02:18:00.000-05:00

I still imagine he believes in me though his voice is gone.
Memories of confidence and the west coast keep driving me to prove why I am still good.
What will happen when I am done?
Will the accolades sound like his approval?
What will happen when I present 50 pages of reasons and 50 pages of distractions and he is still gone?
When he wanted nothing to do with it from the beginning-
No more or less impressed than ever before.

2009-11-05T13:54:00.000-05:00

There are so many books filled with so many words!

Flowing and covering me and spilling again and again.

The words are alive, too! The best part: my words are becoming their words.

How exciting, this new world.

2009-11-05T13:46:00.000-05:00

I've been living inside the walls of my head,
They are wallpapered with flowers: green, ivory, and brown.
My days are decorated with lines from a book.
I'm lost inside murals of poetry and romance.

I like this room. I am preparing cribs for children and learning stories to tell them. I have kisses budding and so much love.

Its quiet and alone, but I have so much love for the future.

the expansive west

2009-10-25T13:46:00.003-04:00

i feel it,

as i'm walking home past the midnight hour

into the morning

weaving through the city

quiet and near tears

after i watched the almost-love pack up

and leave the show,

seeing so many buildings

and so little else,

i feel it.

the way of grace

2009-10-19T02:07:00.000-04:00

I have to constantly remember that the way of grace is different than the way of the world; it is different than my way.

Quietly, I am willing to shoulder the burdens of my failure and retreat until I've fixed them.

Persistently, grace gathers me unto himself, telling me we'll fix it together, we'll fix it together.

Against all instrinct, fulfilling all hope.

what i love about jesus are his scars.

2009-10-15T15:52:00.004-04:00

in living, i have found that the most beautiful thing is to be known.

i have seen girls' hearts break over ernest eyes that seek to know.

(but to the hungry, even what is bitter tastes sweet,

bad love is better than no love.)

what i love about jesus are his eyes and his scars.

i have eyes and scars, too.

(he is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief,

he and i, were are born of the same human blood, he sees my tears.)

i am sick from bitter bread and bad love.

i have scars from pretend knows.

(who, made himself nothing...and being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself,

he did not think it too much to die like i am dying, so that i may stop dying.)

(by his wounds, we are healed,

he knows me, he knows me, he loves me.)

he does not give bitter bread,

he does not give bad love.

life and its burdens

2009-10-12T19:12:00.003-04:00

i loved you because you heard me.

the hidden notes that strike below words

and into meanings-

life and its burdens felt light resting on four shoulders.

(and i, i think, heard you too.

except when the distance turned to echos of what we wanted the other to say.)

now i am afraid to speak again,

for fear that if you hear me,

i might never stop

to see that you put all of the weight back on me.

Le Ballon Rouge

2009-10-05T16:00:00.001-04:00

i just saw a red balloon float float above the skyline outside of my window.

I LOVE HOPE.

even the smallest little pictures of children's hearts give me hope, hope, hope.

2009-10-05T02:00:00.002-04:00

is it too much to say that we ache for life? all of our muscles are just so thirsty.

goodbye.

2009-10-05T01:34:00.007-04:00

i miss you.
i miss you and today i thought of all the ways that i could have avoided this happening.

one by one i recounted every i love you that i felt in every step, my feet and hands waiting for your feet and hands to be there too. there is so much expectancy in love. in expecting you, i grew in i love yous.

my mouth, stunned and silent at the weight of words, held off. i remember how heavy my tongue felt in those last days before, even heavier after. before, i was ripe with so much promise. after, caught in an empty nothing. death always happens this way. one day something is alive, the next, it is not.

i am back to i miss you. there is no friend to take your place, because each place is so unique. what i have been missing is not the absence of just someone, but of you. there is no one else in the world like you, and now you are gone. this truth though simple makes me ache.

looking forward i see that it must be done. though i will always miss out on all that you are and though i may think back to you and be so proud to know that you are human- wonderful, glorious and terrible- i must go now. i do not like standing here in the empty road waiting for your return. i do not like missing out on living, waiting for your life.

absence is death of the worst kind. it teases and taunts; you are not dead, but you have died in me. you are not gone but you have disappeared. you still breathe, but i can not hear it anymore.

all of my anthems remain true, but i will let them go to remain and hang in summer space.

as long as it is summer, i love you.
now that it is autumn, i loved you.

i have to go away now. i must find new roads. i must embrace them now.
goodbye.