(attributed to A. Virelai, as found scribbled in a Wardian case, sealed in 1889, unopened until now)

I was not meant for clocks.
Their hands cannot hold me.
I keep time by leaf-shadow
and the sigh of moss
when the wind forgets itself.
They tried to name me
with ink and Latin,
pressed my pinnules into glossaries,
made me botany,
then houseware,
then wife.
But I knew the understory
where water walks upright
and light is a rumor told in green.
My dress was spores.
My voice: thigmotropic,
answering only to touch.
Do not look for me
in the parlors of order.
I haunt the panes,
lick dew from the inside,
grow rootward when watched.
Even sealed in glass,
I unspoke their empire.

able to see/ptsd/inhabiting me

quietly settles,
      right up against me
soft, direct contact

always knows
when i need extra care

you always know

Proudly marching down Main Street In Conyngham, Pa
    with my Brownie Troop all carrying our miniature red,
        white and blue, dressed in our brown uniforms wearing
             bobby socks and saddle shoes.

Parents smiling waving us on as a
    drum corps kept the beat, sunshine
        made the march blissful & hopeful
            oblivious to future marches of discord &
                protests, heads held high marking

us
as
women
with
purpose.  

Bubble wand struggles
to live. Breath carried away,
head above water.

If I lose the weight
I imagine it won’t be the same
And that now, with the roundness
Of youth and hormones gone
My stomach will not cup softly
Like a meadow green and dotted
With wildflowers ready to be plucked
But will fall sharply in rumpled mounds
All the roots and rocks sticking out
Like the creek cuts the bank as it bends,
All mud and silt and fast eddies ripple.

   The Crust  
Take just enough flour,
A pinch of salt, some Crisco
(How much?)
You don’t need to measure it, You’ll know when it’s right  
Mix this together until it’s crumbly
Add just enough water to make The dough stick together
(How much water?)
Enough, not too much
(it should be frustratingly dry)  

Split dough into two balls
Roll out on a lightly floured surface
(I read that you should refrigerate the dough)
Roll it immediately, refrigeration is for the weak  
The dough should barely stick together
Swearing at the dough helps ensure a flaky crust
Line the pie pan with crust, cut off the extra dough
Pinch the edges with your fingers  

Filling  
Peel enough tart apples, preferably Granny Smith
(How many apples?)
Enough for a 9” crust, you’ll know it
Slice thin, but not too thin   

Sprinkle tapioca on the bottom crust
To keep it from getting mushy
(I’ve read you should use flour)
That’s how the goyim do it, use tapioca  

Toss the sliced apples on top
(I’ve seen them arranged neatly by others)
No one cares how they are arranged
Once the apples are in, add
Sugar, cinnamon, maybe nutmeg
(How much?)
Enough with the questions, just watch
Practice, get the feel  

Place the top crust over the apples
Pinch to close
Cut a hole in the center of the crust
Make a funnel out of tinfoil, place  it in the hole (
Why the funnel?)
So the juices won’t ruin the crust  

Bake in the oven until done and ready to eat
(Until the kitchen smells like heaven And her memory is a blessing)  

While the pie cooks, take the leftover dough
Reroll it and cut into circles using a shot glass
Sprinkle cinnamon sugar on the rounds and bake

Eat while hot so the cinnamon sugar burns your tongue  
When the pie is done, remove from oven
Let cool until you can’t stand it
Then slice and eat
(let your tears fall onto the pie)  

I make the world
by rubbing my worry stone.
You make the world
by rubbing your worry stone.  

Corporations say
that they own God
but they’ll never, ever own
our worry stone.      

rain ended, shimmer
of vermillion cardinal
sips the puddle’s edge

Choosing a shorter haircut and primping
in a car window. Savoring

a woodfire pizza and toasting
with a craft beer. Navigating

road construction. Buying lettuce
at the farmer’s market. Reading

the next book on the nightstand.
Listening to the Reds on the radio

while sitting on the porch. Finding
a new tune for the playlist.

Moving the house plants
into the yard. Tuning in

to flashflood warnings. Wishing
for a ride in an old-school convertible.

I spread myself out in linen swaths across the sky,
poof up in puffy white and grey masses, too,

in the in-betweens— I, a virtuoso
of sky painting. My mother, Earth, proud.

I bring relief and nourishment, but yes,
I can carry deluges that carry destruction

that carry death— but I carry nothing
in hatred— no matter what those tiny

dots from below, who point long lenses
at me, may think. Now, as for the winds,

who determine my directions
and ways, perhaps the dots

might be more leary of them—
or perhaps of themselves.