the trees bow
in reverance of the morning wind
beneath the bright soft and brightening sky
and i rest
in the curve of your smile.

she lay atop a bear. who knew if he were a holy man?

over shoulders old shrines still glow intermittently revealling how far we've come. consider the impact of all the collisions. i imagine the way your mouth, your hand, your heart would tell the story and how, even though we both lived through it, your version would differ from mine. i marvel at the way you are the weather, but there are things i want put into words and told. i am not who you think i am and there are few who really know. i can frighten myself. there are rooms in my body whose doors sit closed. but still, i believe there are ways. i wish i could have witnessed the way you dance when no one's there. the contradiction of the body as self and other. thoughts like these materialize from the centre of the realms inbetween and worlds are moving at so many miles per second it's difficult to tell the difference between premonition and fear. the sounds that silently come from the back of my throat let you know always i am here although, like the weather, the here can change...

lessons to be learned in calm and storm

there are lessons to be learned in calm and storm - the significance of a white feather drifting through the open door, the flickering light of a smile, the way our skin just about holds us in. we are magic and water, we are each the river. we have things to prove to ourselves and each other. earth to move. one's liquid heart fills another's cup. a balm for parched skin. neither made of glass or weathered wood. we are the alchemist in our kitchens, all forbidden lives and colours. and hopeful. growing. moving. plaiting threads hanging from another's pocket loose and unknotted and no longer in the stomach...

when the wind turns

when the wind turns and the need to breathe resumes i wonder, do you believe me to be that kind of woman? (whatever that means); she who brings the night and harvests the days, whose slats of light perforate with paper cuts the morning sky signalling the advent of her becoming?

evening explorations

damp pavements at the end of the day lead down to smooth cobblestones and the fluctuating depths and sounds of the river. light glints on the uneven mirror of the water like something from a pointillist's dream. on the shores and islands hidden birds converse somewhere in green. small continents composing the whole. fingertips lightly brush and break the water, the light. there is, it seems, such little room outside the skin of memory ever expanding to fit more moments. watching my feet and my direction, i need more eyes. so many corners, street names, and flowers to learn, bridges to cross, maps to be made. in a month from now this will be home and the rivers and streets will be known, will be traced in my mind like the lines of the maps etched since birth in my palms.

moments from june

oh, these imperfect circles

oh, these imperfect circles; these deceptively fragile worlds composed of the thinnest skin and bravest hearts, where viriditas so thickly blooms. tell me, what kind of flowers grow around your ribs? are you able to bask in the pleasure of a body so satisfying to read? plant your feet under my table, reshuffle the world. there is no need to count the unknowns. but still, tell me something i dont know. tell me a secret. tell me of all the moments which were love and i'll reciprocate with the stories of the places i call home, i'll show you this is where and point to my breast bone. press your ear to my skin and listen. do you believe we are more than chambers of flesh threaded with ropes of blood and histories? i shall chronicle old rituals performed in days that had meaning. it is not always possible to give shape to that which is invisible. these days of water are simply variations of experience we made into a rule. your eyes are so faraway and clear, blue wells swallowing wishes like the sky upon which someone painted the clouds today. or at least that is the way it seemed. who is to say what's real? isn't it all relative? we possess and create our own mythologies and truths; leave in our wake discarded skins, the traces of who we want to be..