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.