Just a flower
I’m packing boxes again and it’s overwhelming how that brings existential concerns and confessions.
I try to tell myself that it’s all part of the living, this losing. It doesn’t make it any less painful. I see the hours, minutes, slowly falling from the clock, and I try to slow them. But, they have somewhere else to be, and I can’t stop time. He’s too slippery, dodging each attempt I make to convince him to pause one second more.
It’s just a flower, breathing and bleeding into air that will soon take it’s luster. It will soon be just a shell of a memory and I’ll dry it and put in a vase until it’s too fragile and crumples, till all I’m left with is colored dust.
Whatever you know,
There is always more.
A carrot can taste almost
a million ways
depending on the soil.
You’re not being judged
on how much you can hold in that wicker basket.
It’s enough to be brave to stop
and enjoy what is
and ask again
"There was a season of wondering, ‘I don’t know what that means’, yet, before that, of taking everything hard as nails and accepting it like the time, present, unmoving, as is. Letting moonlight wax on words changed that, and, despite my sturdy knees, made everything effervescent, incapable of grasping with the hand, yet deliciously full of hope. Paragraphs became sonnets and even a syllable slid into soft spots. Seasons always come around though and today I felt the chill of winter, mittens despite the thermostat."
"If you won’t let me fight for you then get out of the way or I’ll swallow you, whole, spit you out in a dream of drowning, deep, fish swim free. But, you’re still here. I’m with salty tears. And, you, you get nothing. Nothing. But, wishes far gone, bones of caterpillars lost and without their home."
"Each word is a tiny seed. Where will you sow? What will come about? Will you have a garden of poetry?"