A teacher once said to me,

You will know what to write

when you find what’s meaningful.


I’ve always been a wanderer,

moving from place to place,

people to people, family to family.

There are limits to my belonging though,

limits to how I’m loved, or to how I’m entrapped.

I have learned to become

a vampire of place and circumstance,

absorbing energy, like drilling for oil,

when and where I can,

sometimes where there’s not much to give,

quickly, feeding myself, then moving on.

Sometimes people make me exhausted,

and take energy from me; Reciprocity.


But the forest stands

in chartreuse, early summer glimmer

and damp bark, pushes through ancient soil,

despite people siphoning her edges,

choking her hillsides with blaring progress.

She welcomes the intruder with open arms,

Come, breathe with me, renew yourself,

Stay awhile in resilience.

There is no limit to my love.


I want to write forests.