Biking downhill, wind
blowing
bugs into my eyes. Song of cicadas
thrumming, piano to crescendo
to piano again.
I saw a cormorant
swallowing
an eel thrashing
up and down and side to side as though
swinging would save it.
The terns yelling but
at peace, quiet
in their bodies.
I think about
these many lives I have not chosen.
My mother died
those words that can(not) be
true
yet are.
My mother died
and the slow leak of air
out of my body this year
finally ran out
leaving me empty of all
but anger
and grief.
And yet, how much space they take
inside a body
full and empty, shadow and body together
How to choose joy then?
The Siberian wallflowers
are blooming again
The milkweed too
Soon the goldfinches will peck
away at the dried seeds of the echinacea
I’m scared to forget to tell you.
As you would say, there’s always
something going on, a miracle
there for the finding.
I am trying my hardest.
I’m not sure
whether or not memory
is the enemy
whether or not
burning the house down
is the right way to go
wipe it all clean
fresh slate ahead
They say
feeling is knowing
a silent white room
can be
a comfort
the words a cipher
a distance that tells
of no such thing
as common humanity
When the lake freezes
tell the frogs to
bury themselves,
slow their hearts
to die
dreaming
of springtime joy.