Golden boy has golden teeth 

It’s alright that it hurts.
Let me say that again-
It’s alright that it hurts this much.
We are not lesser for grieving that which should be grieved,
for it taking as long it takes.   
—
I’ve been watching ants
moving their babies into my mailbox before a storm.
Every time it rains they do this
faithfully.
They sense what’s coming
do what they can do
without despair,
together.   
—   
Would you hold my hand,
let me hold yours?
Perhaps we can carry this together.
Find our way to the other side of the storm.
It’s alright that it hurts.
It’s alright that it hurts this much.

Sometimes, the best act of love is to wander.
No expectation of where to go, when to be there, who to meet up with;
just drifting through the day, driven by your own decisions.
Go where you want, do what you want, see, hear, smell, taste the world through your mind’s eye instead of another’s.
They were onto something when they decided to wander lonely as a cloud
and take the roads less traveled by, for when one carries on with the weight of one’s soul
you find the pieces never found in the midst of others’ noise.

(Inspired by Wordsworth, Frost, and my own sojourn of the day.)

The radar shows the downpour
will end in five minutes,
eight of us stand on the veranda
of the brewery
waiting for it to let up
before we resume our cornhole competition,
this is a game of slanted boards, beanbags
measured distance,
sacred rules and cash prizes.
Without apparent reason the screen
switches to the news
with video of a war bombing
followed by a frame of a frantic man
holding what could be a lifeless child,
he holds his arms out
as if giving us a gift.
Someone curses
and grabs the remote
to switch it back to the weather.
When the rain stops
we stomp down the steps 
to the cornhole pit.
Noone seems to want to pick up
a beanbag
  

Falling

Bleak, desperate

Grappling, numbing, sinking

Sleep, hunger, silence, ache

Regressing, withdrawing, breaking

Fragile, distant

Hope

Note: transalate findings from the audio
    Find what it invokes
        Does it accelerate the subject’s heartbeat
        What color was the hardwood
        Were there crumbs in the rug
    Evaluate the bassline
        Hear it drum off the futon
    Observe vibrations in subject’s juicebox
        Is the rhythm steady
        Is that fear or condensation

Note: copy images from the television static
    One windmill on a flying mountain
        Dangling ankles over the side of the cliff
        Ukelele strings and carpet bangs
    Pay special attention to electricity
        Throughout the cabinet
        Ghosts cackle through a hot sixteen
    Cartoon goons lounge in a dark room   

Note: subject’s legs cross together
    Neck cranes upward
        Pupils widen in wonder
    Hands fall politely in lap
        Perhaps for the first time they feel small
        Perhaps for the last time they will be

This is what I need to say
to you: I will always love you
and—

I love you. I know you
can figure out 
the rest. 

A node has auxiliary buds—

possibility folded into the curve of a stem,

quietly waiting.

You sent one to me,

wrapped in moist paper,

tender and trembling with more

than plant life.

You called it a cutting,

but I knew it as something else:

a gesture

of hope,

a soft offering—

maybe even a test.

A node, you said,

forms adventitious roots

when exposed to moisture.

It adapts.

It learns where it is,

and decides to grow anyway.

I held it carefully.

Not just for what it was,

but for what it meant.

You trusted me

with something

that had no guarantees.

And I—

with hands still shaky from forgetting how to care—

placed it in water,

watched the light touch its edges.

Waited.

I remember what else you sent:

a photo.

Not of leaves,

not instructions,

but invitation.

Proof that you, too,

have tried to grow

in uncertain places.

There’s science in this,

yes—

auxin streaming through the cut,

telling it how to become.

But there’s longing, too.

And memory.

And the silent ache

of those who send roots

before they’re sure they’ll take.

What grows from this

isn’t wild.

It’s chosen.

It’s tended.

A bloom that defies timing—

not early,

not late,

but entirely

different.

And in this soft experiment

between leaf and breath,

I begin to believe again:

in trust,

in tending,

in the slow miracle

of being held,

and still—

becoming.

I wish time
and again 
that I had done more;
tried harder
given life a different spin.

At one point,
I must have been a child.
I remember risk-taking felt so much freer.

now I curl up in a ball
    bend right over
    head stuck in dirt

If I can’t see it
               (which I can)
         I don’t have to feel guilt for missing it
                                    (when I do).

my back aches now

missed opportunities

if I could just 
get.   over.    myself.

I could hit her.

the rage I feel

for staying right there

     letting nothing change

She kept me wilted.

Now I’ve woken up
I want to go right back to sleep.

There’s nothing here for me.

I didn’t plant any seeds.