before the last station, where all passengers
are kindly requested to exit the train, will you
have checked your phone every 42 seconds,
will you have scrolled your thumb to a shine?
will you have sat next to a nurse and
looked at people around you:
their shoes, their buttons – or worse?
will you have mistaken your own reflection
for luggage left by somebody else?
will you have thought of ordering sushi
and talked yourself out of pretense?
will you have played with your zipper,
your wedding ring,
or the frayed cuff of your sleeve?
will you have listened to half a drum solo
or abandoned half a belief?

An act of kindness is
a contagious thing.
A pandemic will scour the world with unflinching change,
but it needn’t be an ugly thing.

Blurred eyes from warm tears

Texting you the whole way home

Never have I ever

Had a friend quite like you

The glimpse of sun in the morning

The tightness in your throat before you laugh

The satisfaction of laying down after a long day

Holding on to you

Like you’re a lifeline

Take me as I am

Just like I take you as you are

There are too many pictures to count. 
They can’t be disposed of by clicking, but only          
        By sifting          
            Perusing          
                Cherishing              
                    Remembering
Tossing ones that are blurry or duplicates
Or contain people no one can identify
Places we don’t recognize.
Memories that have no home.

We don’t know what we’re doing & the raft seems impossibly light, far too flimsy to carry us. But when we push off from the riverbank, things go well enough. Soon the current catches us and we’re off, no paddling needed, the water quickening with each bend of the river. There are rapids to negotiate, the roar of the white water getting louder & louder. At last we come to the edge of a vast waterfall and plunge right over it into an even vaster sky, weightless, gliding, holding hands as we shout with joy indistinguishable from terror into the sudden silence.

Then the earth comes up to meet us & it seems we fall asleep. Time passes. Hours, certainly. Maybe days, months, years. 

When I wake, finally, on that stony shore, you & the raft are gone, though I can see your footprints leading into the water. I wait & I wait & you don’t come back. After a while I sit on the bank with my eyes closed, my head in my hands, wondering what I’ll do when night comes.

At last I open my eyes & can just see, far upriver, the place we came from. I get to my feet, & because it seems like the thing to do, I stand at the edge & wave. Then I turn downstream & walk on, picking my way through the rocks.

nice little planet
blue seas
brown land
simple atmosphere

lifeforms detected:
Sechi forms: .003 to 22.001
nothing special

mineral and particle rich:
aging home star

alert: asteroid belt between planets 4 and 5:
1.002 chance of impacts to level 3

sentience levels:
hilariously primitive

could be amusing 
to land and engage–
give them something
to think about in those
confused brains

but

it’s almost lunch time–
perhaps I’ll stop if I’m ordered
through this sector
a second time

driving home realizing
this
this, very specifically, is Kentucky
acres, miles
farmland 
horses grazing
cows roaming
fences of wood, well kept
stones piled in an organized fashion, firm as years roll by
                if I lived near the coast, I would want to see the water, regularly
                        not let days go by without the sound of the ocean
just the same, I allow myself a daily journey
green ground, blue skies, winding road
a sense of place, oh so valuable
                        healing I did not realize I needed

I thought of Grandma
and her simple desserts
as I simmered rhubarb
down to sauce
after adding just enough sugar
to maintain its tart character
and cut the pucker a bit.
I will pour it over
vanilla ice cream
and serve it
to my very good friends
at the table
my grandma gave me.

i am as light as a tumbleweed 

Our footprints heal over, a forest rising where we have been.
Where they won’t heal, lakes appear.

People no longer fit inside the houses of their skins
and spill out into sunlight to snack on sunflower seeds.

They laugh and lick the salty grime off their fingers,
and kiss with a fury, as if for one last time.

Even so, Easter comes, with or without the holy fire.
The icons stay untouched, no candles lit.

But in spring, the young won’t do without
their kisses, fire, and sunflower seeds.

And beneath the bright sun of these holy days,
a poisoned blossom opens – dark, unseen.

Until someone close to you – an enemy, a lover –
rises from their chair and leaves.

And our houses turn into gardens. Then to temples.
Down the street, someone rides past on a donkey.

You won’t know who until he steps inside
and sits at your table – this ungodly feast.

In the hollow morning, a bird call rings out.
The last fat of the earth melts away.

Can a person learn to stoop lower,
to need less and take less?

Go on now– try to step back
into the shrinking skin of your shadow.