The Labyrinth

Most days my mind feels like the inside of a pumpkin— tangled, stringy, goopy, I wish I could just carve myself  from the inside out, scraping out every last anxious ruminating cyclical thought, but anxiety is the Minotaur and the labyrinth that imprisons it, it is the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh Hydra head when…

Fishing for Light

If I were to  as Pablo Neruda wrote, sit on the rim of my own well of darkness, fishing for light, I might see monarch butterflies emerging  from a winged skull on a 1700’s gravestone, or the girth of a 200-year-old European beech tree snaking its way up the well to greet me, or maybe…

You Are

You are the smell of a hundred years of pine trees whose needles lay muddled  by the feet of hikers on an early summer’s morning. You are the grace of a lily pad floating atop a corner of the lake with her roots in place to prevent her from drifting away. You are the resilience…

Everlasting

I am everlasting, even after this body dies its nutrients will rise  giving life back to the soil, to the cracks where wild flowers grow—  this I know. I am uncertain  of the future in a lot of ways  but this was the life  and the body I was given  so as long as I …

Bees

Have you ever tried  to shake out laundry  drying on a line  of any bees that might have made your jeans  a temporary home? That is what it feels like trying to empty out my head before bed— just trying to free these bees before they sting me  in my sleep.

Stump

They cut her down today— first, they started  with her tallest branches just a few cuts  to sprinkle the earth  with hundreds of years worth  of her Next, they began sawing at  her midsection  bulbous and covered in lichen  her body etched with the histories of teenage love Finally, they snipped her — sliced her…

By the Roots

I wanted to run my fingers  through your long hair reaching like wisps of branches  toward the sky grip you tight by the roots and remind you who controls the wind  that rustles your leaves  who controls the rain to relieve your thirst  and who controls the sun to warm your soul. 

Moss

When I’m old and it’s time for me  to leave this earth, paint me in green in honor of the moss which grows across the abandoned train station, across the stumps and rocks that flirt with sunlight in the woods.

Bloom

You pop in and out of my life like the sun slips in front of and behind the clouds  a fickle force of nature, yet I still turn to you  to help my flowers bloom.