• • nine • •
I try too hard to make the words pretty; lose the truth in the shine of my polished poetics. A time and place for that. I need to be present to make it real.
Less romanticizing to the point of rose-tinted-ness. You have to love the boring parts, the ugly parts, the crying-shrieking-empty parts. They come back into a beautiful line of days, again and again.
I try too hard to make the words pretty; lose the truth in the shine of my polished poetics. A time and place for that. I need to be present to make it real.
Less romanticizing to the point of rose-tinted-ness. You have to love the boring parts, the ugly parts, the crying-shrieking-empty parts. They come back into a beautiful line of days, again and again.
• • ten • •
The slouching, withered stick in my yard is a rose. One week of consistent watering, and I stepped out into the morning sun to find a perfect, deep-pink bud tucked up and sleeping. Just a little bit of love to make some things thrive.
Why does that surprise me? A sprinkle of effort and attention - a faulty garden-hose worth of love - to reap endless rewards. Why do I find myself in the same stage of forgetting? Water things to see them grow. It’s as simple as that.
• • eleven • •
I dearly love the shoreline between sleep and waking: that perfect liminal space where I am tethered or floating in equal measures. The waves of dreams crest lightly over me on the sun-warmed sand, which is made up of pillows and sheets. Nightfish - soft, crystalline, blue - crawl or swim ashore, then vanish into the light of day.
The waters do not threaten to pull me under. They pass over me in slow, chimeric spirals.
• • twelve • •
Notes from observering the house I pass by on the way home: frequently, a curious and ever-revolving cast of stray cats. Chickens, sometimes, or goats. At times, I slow down to talk to them through the passenger window, though they rarely acknowledge my interruption of their earnest foraging.
There’s a hammock strung from the center-most tree. When it rains, I see a silhouette beneath, arms folded thoughtfully behind their head as they gaze up at that grand canopy: their homegrown umbrella, their green-tinged oasis.
