Woken with a headache, loud complaint against the inflatable mattress on the tiny apartment floor, I stare outside where lightning flashes far away, and wind tousles treetops – knavish heralds of a thunderstorm. Under the streetlights below, brilliant greenery overlays vibrant paint schemes, wood scrollwork no longer seen in mass-produced suburbia, those drab by comparison.
shelter cold empty beach daytime mine in slow pacing walk seaside lone thought view nature calm being ice mist breath steam air drift upwardly rising silent fall rain glowing distant horizon rough wooden steps climbing drizzle escaping under paint-peeled tin shelter sit comfort dry bench second-hand wool coat pulled tightly be nearer grateful safe cover
Psalm for a Changing Climate Comforted by damp grasses, by massive maples that shade my simple house, I linger far from wilderness. Those dry lands whether formed from ancient ocean or very newly made from wildfire and desperation, from ash-black sands are someone else’s home, not mine. Nearby, a river sings nourished by summer rains—though
Ghosts of Winters Past I remember the Christmas when I awoke to see a shiny new toboggan standing tall beside the tree and winter breaks spent sliding down a frozen hill where neighborhood kids could all be found rosy cheeks and tingling toes under sunny skies at ten degrees below boots trudging and crunching through
Lights shining in the distance, Leading people to dance, Eating delicious food, Along with friends and family, People praying to god, Surrounded by bright colors, Arrays of flowers, Gifts are given, Fireworks illuminate the sky, The feeling of happiness, Spreads through people, Diwali is here.
Easter morning you pull on black hoodie, force calloused feet into red Reebocks, deny three times you’re in a rush, blow off brunch. No leg of lamb for this eighteen-year-old. I slip an oversized card into my purse. Easter, after all, is about hope. I envision you sauntering past hostess stand, late, table for four,
instead of sorrow, i will mark the day with ceremony, from the moment of waking to the feel of my body’s curl under darkening covers i will breathe ritual, so that even coffee’s steam will recognize its incense, offer grounding, so that even work will fall into quiet rhythm. instead of tears i will laugh
the moments in between time as i become two my midwife tells me this is transition but words don’t happen in the moments of birthing moments don’t happen time is but a marker on my midwife’s watch 60 seconds 10 centimetres heart rate. contraction. push. time doesn’t happen in birthing. birthing happens outside outside and
roots , flesh and grain offered up as sacrifice by ritual of fire upon white hot coals aromatic with mysterious unguents the high priest turns and gathers them with implements of sacred wood and iron prepares them with anointments of secret herbs and lotions with eyes and hands by ancient signs examines them announcing at