Sunday, July 31, 2016
49 toward the Omer
The trees wake me up. That's what it is to live in a house surrounded by forest. Water meets leaves. Winds meet watered leaves. Womb sound: mother moves, steps smooth, shakes the room. I find I have enough. The windowsill collects droplets. I'll make sure to water the plants.
Sunday, July 3, 2016
The other day
The other day I tried to clap myself into being.
Two clay pieces face each other across the field.
Trees know they exist because they drink and die.
Two fire extinguishers look over the flames and fall in love.
A hand reaches up. She is learning to tread the water.
The table, this table, has more desires than I do.
I'm supposed to learn to be afraid along with everyone else.
Sometimes the ground doesn't push back against my feet.
The cup of hot chocolate says trust me, what nourishes you is here.
Here is two feet from your face. Here, an anchor, a string, a boat.
Two clay pieces face each other across the field.
Trees know they exist because they drink and die.
Two fire extinguishers look over the flames and fall in love.
A hand reaches up. She is learning to tread the water.
The table, this table, has more desires than I do.
I'm supposed to learn to be afraid along with everyone else.
Sometimes the ground doesn't push back against my feet.
The cup of hot chocolate says trust me, what nourishes you is here.
Here is two feet from your face. Here, an anchor, a string, a boat.
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