it is always in the naked, vulnerable moments right before sleep sweeps through my bones.
Do you think
if we just stopped for a second
i could gather all that is near to me, my emotions and this mess that is in me,
and lay it out on the floor, piece by piece (like i do when packing for one of my road-trips). Let’s assess, let’s collect, let me stand with one hand on my chin and my eyes filled with memories i can’t unsee.
I want to wear sea-foam colored soft sweaters and never brush my hair. I want to collect my artifacts and my books, walk up the side of these lone foothills,
sit by myself and marinate in my sadness.
Remember wen i used to wear those shoes? Long before they got buried in the chaos of my closet. Remember when i wore the old lady jeans and the same striped shirt i still have, the same purse i have been using again-
many colors, lots of textures.
I am often lost to myself.
But here, under the wind of grace,
like when she taught me to dive into waves //
(but then that's another thing)- the ceaseless, unresting, unrelenting force of waves,
the ocean, over and over and over again.
I want to erase it. I want to gather my shame and bury it under a pile of rocks so high and wide they have to build a bridge just to see around it. I want to rest in the arms of something I barely know.
I’m feeling dangerous and overlooked, ignored and frustrated.
I remember my first collection of plants. So small, they fit on a plate, on a stool, in front of the piano.
I have
An uncontrollable unfathomably deep drop of sadness. I drown, i hide my face in my coat sleeve,
I am within myself. I squeeze my eyes shut in pain.
is beginning to show it’s color, some growth.
march is always a strange month for me. aching and groaning against the bonds of stubborn chill and frost.
once, many months ago, the girls drove in to visit. i wore overalls, the sun was warm, it was windy. i wasn’t bored.
my car is very quiet. it’s unusual for it to be this calm, not windy,
(just the breath of a breeze testing the long prairie grasses still burnt with golden death from late fall).
and i wonder if that house can see me like i see it.
I wonder if it knows I sit here and watch, hidden in these hills,
like i watch you, from hidden in my heart.
She said I should be proud
that they don't understand how
being called that-
hurts my sensitive soul.
and to be proud of the ways in which I feel my way through the world // almost as if every single blade of grass I see with my eyes also touches my fingertips.
I, however,
made a list of things i want to do in this season that will begin this week. I want to feel like the clouds are not pressing down on me.
