Welcome Home

Searching for a home and
how foolish of me to miss
the train; I’m already home.
Crossing the threshold is a warm hug.

Spring lingers on the wick
and gently hides in my sheets.
The windows are always open
and so is the door.

My home has my heart and the
residents are as transient as
the leaves riding the breeze,
and as sure as the beams I dwell beneath.

May the roof cover me and
may the walls bear my secrets.
My home is as joyous as the brook
and as sturdy as the pines.

Oh Lord if ever I am withered,
if ever I am cold,
if the sun is covered in clouds,
please reach down and replant me
in the garden my roots first left.
In that soil make me strong and
remind me of every angel who’s
hands have tilled those grounds.
Please Lord, breathe softly on my
head so I may bloom for you once more.
Amen.

Welcome home.

Seven Down

Beneath the serrated
angry bushes I prayed
to become adept enough
to place my foot out.

I realize.

If I spend my time
and refuse frugality
I feel as though I’ll have missed
the special way you make me feel.

The pails can remain empty,
for I am spurred on by the
need to feel something more
than solidarity in my chest.

If I wax or wane please
keep your eyes out.
I am strong, but hollow.
Fill me.

Like the flowers retreat
before the breast of Winter
so too does my heart bury itself
when I feel that familiar look.


It wasn’t the sport.
It wasn’t the forest.
It wasn’t the sun.
It wasn’t the fox.
It wasn’t the divine.
It wasn’t the hunter.
It wasn’t the smiling youth.

I know who he’s not,
and that has comforted me
as much as it has burned.
That’s seven down.

Will I?

Sometimes my trumpet scrapes
upon the sharp gravel and the
golden paint chips into little flecks
that stick to my ankles and toes.

I want to lift my head, but I
can’t seem to find the strength.

My desires and passions are
violet specters that pull at my chest.

From my sacral regions I feel fire
that brings waves of grief, because
all I want is to love and be loved.
What a shame reality can be.

Spiral staircases extending from me
and I cannot walk them all, and
I can see that some are worse than
death, but even still I want to climb.

There are choices; there are dividers.

The journey is the tale and the tale
is the reflection of feelings.
I am the greenest sequoia; the
whitest birch.

Somewhere in the unraveling threads
of the Lord’s mighty might I will
find the answers and possibly
the acceptance.

Able to Stand

Like a thread I am taut that
I cannot span the distance.
Reaching for the oaken chair
so we can face one another.

I want to talk, and I mean really
talk to you in a way you won’t forget.
I have been sinking for too long
into the water I thought I could stand on.

Every time we part, I stomp around
my cozy room like an elephant.
The words I contained are heavy
and weigh me down so much.

Recently I had a brilliant talk with my
reflection, and I told myself to let go.
Somehow, in the silence of the bathroom,
I found inside of me the courage.

We sit eye to eye and I am free.
I can smile and mean it like I
haven’t meant it ever before.
You know my heart through my throat.

I have my mother’s lips and her
generous spirit inside me as well.
I have never wanted to hurt you, and
that fear has clipped my wings.

From the yearning to speak
I found the stumps have regenerated
into the most beautiful plumes.
I can stand and leave now with no remorse.

The last touch I will leave with you
is this: I will gently cup your face in
my kind hands and lightly brush my
lips against your forehead, farewell.

Collision (Car Crash)

A collision that set the head askew.
In the backlash I saw a million lights,
each one pining with the prospect of
touching the flying wooden stakes.

Summer away in a spiral vial where
the negative spaces are filled.
A veil polished with the unforeseeable.
All these pins hold together the fabric.

Collision.

The pieces that surrounded you are of
no consequence when you’re laying
on a stretcher, a stretcher, a stretcher.
Oh my god, what will the door open to?

Now I am praying at your bedside.
The wells have overrun and the fields
are stained with a dampness that penetrates
even the deciduous nature of healing.

I mistook it all for an escape, and
now I am even less free than before.
I can’t lift my arms without moving
ten pounds of tubes that rush life into me.

The Only Love

The only love I’ve ever known
is the love I appreciate the least.

What a selfish fool I am
to disregard the touch
of my mother’s fingers
as they stroked my back.

Who’s arms would I slump
into if not those of my
dearest friends who
are the harbor in the storm?

I am a flier on the wind.
I am the wave against the rock.
I am the kisses on the moon.
I am the frog under a spell.
I am the oak carved with maps.
I am the ink and the stamp.
I am every open window and
I’ve been right here all along.

The echoes of my voice slide
into the ranks of the stars.
Even they know my heart,
and what more of a boon can I ask?

I will forget everything I know about love.
I will free my eyes from the red roses.

I’m sure when I stop gazing at the
willow tree’s boughs I’ll realize
that the person I desire the most
has been beneath the canopy all along.

This Morning

This morning drifted in
with incomparable grace.
I was awoken by the silent light
gently stroking my drowsy cheek.

When I arrived at my dew painted yard
I took off my shoes and breathed in deeply.
As if I’d been stiff for years, I awkwardly
walked out unto the slippery carpet.

My spirit began to warm up and with
a gleeful yelp I began to run.
Tall grass brushed my legs with diamonds
and the coolness made me buoyant.

My smile glowed like the sparkling
pearls of honey that stuck to my fingers.
In a bushel birds took air to dodge my
reunion with the hands that hold me.

This morning I yelled and spun in circles.
I pretended every story I had ever thought
up was possible while white figures dotted the skies.
The grass, sun, and sky revived my gratitude for living.