(inspired by the “Every Monday” exercise in Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones”)

I am a friend to
every fridge cleaned and in need of cleaning,
every hour, every day of the week, every month,
(word nerds, curd nerds, out-the-boxers), named with all their deific power

I am a friend to
constellations and galaxies: sub/cultures
astrologers and artists: white (noise) space
writers and intuitives: between the lines
crystal and coin collectors: chrono/logic

Once a time I was a friend to
outcasts on principle: This no longer stands.

I am a friend to
role players and cosplayers
musicians and makers
dreamers of dreams
planners and historians
lifecoaches and chefs

Once a time I was a friend to
anyone, at first:
but we all only have so wide of a good side.

I am a friend to
those on the grind and those off grid
campers and hikers and timekeepers
rope jumpers and homeschoolers
farmers, folklorists, librarians, teachers
plant tenders and poem crafters

Once was a time I made too many exceptions.

I am a friend to
the pots and pans and roads that lead to Castlewood Canyon
the Rocky Mountains and aspen, the blue spruce, the bur oak, and the arboretums
thrift stores and friends to go along, art galleries at home and formal, and clever messes and clever organization
Appalachia and the shady understory of every lucky trail and hardy forest
red rocks and waterfalls and myself and the shores I’ll come to know– the water nymphs therein — each footprint that can not long stand