Dear Diary, 

I cannot weep as long as I keep walking.
The pain of an open blister silences the
grief of missed opportunity on days with
or without clouds or rain.

Childhood, in the midst of falling thunder,
filled my mind with trees and rivers, dollbabies and
foldover sandwiches, ticklish feet and stories…
everywhere and everything histories…
called my name.
Behind garages, beneath beds, inside
kitchen cabinets, over by the petunias, the mailbox,
the lunch tray return window, the bookshelves, the
desks with their big drawers and small spaces…
inside the clothes rack at the local J. C. Penny’s…
and, And, AND under the cheese cap of a hot dog coney….
tell me, what happens while space waits….
and time passes.

Have you ever walked away from a character without
stopping to nod or extend a hand in greeting?
It isn’t pleasant or comfortable, sort of like
eating stale cake that looks delicious and
smells like cherry chapstick.

The weight of substitution for what was and
what needed to be could not be touched or carried, but
shoulder hoisted and leaned against the outlines of
a sometimes-brown reality. Pull twine from the earth 
and spin a new kind of existence into the frame. 

No one tells us how to pull the moss from
our dark waters. Alone, you and I must
reach down into the melting richness of
algae and scum and leeches to
untangle our feet, stoop to untie our expectations,
and keep walking.

Your Friend, 
Me