Tag Archives: nature


the devouring forms of childhood

lay within a transmuted cloud formation

backstabbed by light beaming brushstrokes

all trickling down into a pool of commonalities

awaiting a future

where feverish feelings bubble up into

times on the precipice of being cherished



some mornings you wake me with a call

to arms, or a crawl as if in deep trenches

perhaps just your color wakes me,

as it twists into my dreams

then envelops,

becoming my dreams, pulling

the blackness from behind my eyelids

into the bed, taking shape and texture


you are a soft fiddle head fern

that runs through the wind,

imitating an ash-throated flycatcher


your forgiveness comforts me

and wakes me at night


Low Lake

quixotic puddle, a surrounding circled

by sandy ringlets of time under tree trunks

bearing desire, beneath Earthly happenings

below fears each a different shade of brown.


awaiting the hands of the archaeologist

who lives in Earthly happenings but digs

deeper than the laborers of nearby towns

and fills pales with rocky memories to look through later

just to find the round forming tangible time,



which culminates in the rolling stones they release

from their wrinkled fingers and soft brain tissue

as it thinks of what is later

as an idea

through each individual estuary laden sphere of

circled time wheeling life creating characteristic.

The Ghost of January

I stayed a ways behind you,

on the curling tail of a forest on it’s wedding day.

dressed in white,

veiled, but not obscured.

we could have walked hand in hand,

but we held leashes instead,

which was a separate bond in itself.

a bond that said,

“I love what you love” or “I am lonely too”.


and for each step forwards,

we left one step behind,

that held all of what was not held by our hands.






grain of wood creates waves around my carpet,

a multicolored coastline

with it’s frayed edges, concealing mollusks and dog hair.

to follow the natural flow of the patterns

is to step back in time, or through the door

that separates living and loving.

tracing my fingers over them,

splinters collecting in my sensitivity,

realizing it’s not an ocean at all.

if it was, I would never leave the safety of my bed.

you can’t pay for an ocean but you can pay

for the Earth,

with it’s supplies that it kindly deals out to you.

no hidden motive except in your own humanity.


bartering may be safer than buying.

To Parish

a tree killed a cousin of mine

on the third month of last year

when the mornings were still getting used to waking without fields of crystals,

gifts brought in by bitter nights. 

when he was still getting used to being born,

and taking long walks through mountain trails to deal with that burden.

perhaps trees deal with similar burdens and perhaps they long to take those walks.

on that day, at that exact time, on the same burden-ridden trail, a tree found it’s voice. 

finally, the courage to have a voice, and express that voice.

a cracking, newly found voice in the form of a declaration 

to the mountains and to those fellow travelers who pass through there

about how life and death are directly linked to love and time, 

and we exist,

in the space where our love is greater, 

for more time than we exist out of it…

death isn’t fateful or ironic

it’s necessary and probable.


when the last bits of my body were smoldering, 

my mother’s corpse had already benefited the livelihood of earthworms and milkweeds

for over twenty years. 

“I” caught a westward breeze and floated with random precision 

towards an old solar power plant. 

if my smell had been more pleasing,

some may have said that I was a symbol of communication 

with a higher power. 

the remaining essence of my legacy could have been used in ritual

to help reassure an ancient people that death really wasn’t all that bad 

or that they were more important than they seemed. 

sometimes it’s easier to find solace in the knowledge 

that one day you’ll be able to fly. 


A white vase, 

Shaped like an hourglass

Cut in half and overturned 

Its never held sand but it can 

Tell time like everything I’ve ever seen

In this time it holds a large fern. 

I wonder,

Does the teller of time feel proud

To nurture and hold? 

Does it feel jealous of always being 

Overshadowed by what it holds? 

I would feel used but I’m not 

A white vase, 

Shaped like an hour glass

Cut in half and overturned