sentimentalist | feminist | poet
On looking over my harvest field,
To see what crop my life might yield,
I was amazed to find its state,
For I had left it to its fate.
After seeing red almost all year,
Night’s darkness during day appeared,
And so a profit came to me,
There was fruit where fruit should be.
All of this time spent
making and remaking home
in my latest self-image,
arranging common objects
by color and height,
into bouquets of dried memories
laid out alive before me;
turning down the bed,
like an envelope full of flowers,
a repository for the weary-
hearted wanderers of my life;
to be romantic
to steep in bath water
to float in a cupped hand
to read into
to press in a book and forget
to remember today more than other days
to remember what I like to do
to remember who I like to give rose petals to
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When the Old Man fell,
it interrupted all scheduled programming,
including Britney’s tenth birthday party,
where I was one minute
feeling
to pin the tail on the donkey,
and the next listening
for the sound
of a pin
falling.
Falling
like ashes,
ashes from the sky
in Oregon.
Fifteen years later,
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Time tends to create an opaque membrane,
with more limited optical clarity
behind the lenses of eyes
that automatically adjust for distant targets,
when someone, who is very fond of blue,
comes near.
It draws the taupe veneer of history
over the windows of the heart,
goading light from the front of the house—
What if I could shine from inside out?
