Of ears

And what are the words of permanence.

Of disarray

The things that lay thick and syrupy against a sticky August windshield. The sweat beams on your forehead and tattered droplets of rain congregate in the shadows.

You can never take it back.

You can only say

I’m sorry. 

I didn’t mean it

I changed my mind

I was wrong

Forgive me.

But the ears that have bent under the breadth and the pain.

You can never remove the weight of your words.

And don’t I know it better than you.

Haven’t I heard the thing that rips your frame from its bones

Your soul a wry torrent coercing and staggering in the sunlight 

Caught on a limb, on a dime, in the heated breeze.

And haven’t I been that? That sickening angle. The phrase that bleeds in your mouth as your lips come across your teeth.

You don’t even mean it. As you lose your train of thought.

But he deserves it.

You should mean it.

You should be able to mean it.

And that is the truth.

Though you love him too much to ever want him to hurt that badly.

The way you have hurt.

And that, is the truth.

And the thing that should never be said. 

It’s too awful. Kindness will swallow you whole little girl.

And will fear. And love. And rage.

Be quieter than you have been.

And wait. 

Wild love

We’ll call it a summer of wild love

Of reckless decision making

And frightful abandonment.

A hollow. Swallowed up by darkness and crying out with bold and fearless screeches and yodels into the nighttime.

The cracks in the valley

The light shining in

Losing all kinds of love

Fighting desperately for yourself.

Your self.

Alone not lonely. 

Lonely, not alone. 

And one. 

That heart within my heart. 

That permanent marker. 

That beautiful soul.

 That dear and broken creature. 

Throw the driftwood into the river, and watch it float down stream. Fluid, out of control. Perfectly spiraling. 

Is it safe, does it matter if it knows where it will land?

Or only that it will arrive in one piece. 

Grow

Can you be quiet

Can you watch the blades of grass 

through the squinting winter sunlight 

out of the periphery of your mind 

as they teeter in an easy breeze

All the while knowing 

Their only thing is to grow

Hi moon

Hi moon

Is it the change of the seasons

Or that my heart feels too unstable to move forward

Too shifty. Shifting. Unabashedly crying out that it would be different

That you would be

And that we can change

Like the moon,

All the time.

But constant too. 

Mawmaw

Walking through an antique mall is like spending time with my grandmother again. 

Smells that I attributed to her, warmth and dust and perfume. Old wood and dried book pages. 

Fake flowers and crystal stemware.

Walking from booth to booth, the air stifled and earthy,

I want to reach out and hold her hand. 

I can hear her laugh. I can see her face. 

I can turn and say hey Mawmaw,

What’s this really worth?

And with a turn of her heels and a twist of her head, she would respond,

I don’t know girl, let’s see what we can make them do. 

Living

We pass by

In the shadows

And as the day turns to night,

And the night again to day

Today, we say, we will be what we do.

And what will we do?

And what if, for even a breathe,

We could see ourselves as God does

Not built on our accomplishments

But in His image 

Beautiful by design

Broken by the world

Broken, beautiful, and just

Living. 

Illness

I am a live,

And for why?

For what minutes, seconds, days, of lives of trees are we here 

And if, knowing that we do not know,

Do we not just bend down.

Do we not throw our hands out and cry to the heavens and to the fields

That though we do not know, 

We are alive. A life, watching the water flow over the rocks

Watching the sun fold under the forest. 

Watching the seasons change. Feeling. 

Feeling God. Feeling everything.

Never knowing. But wanting to.