Invisible Ink When the flame of presence is lit the truth emerges, like invisible ink on a page that before appeared blank. [image: from Bodyscapes | John Poppleton]Read more "Invisible Ink"
The Grays The grays are worse than the blues… At least you can write a song about the rich cobalt-feeling of sadness. The grays settle like a cloak of smoke, leaving you voiceless and dry-eyed, with nothing so satisfying as a good cry. The grays have nothing to give, not even tears. Wraith-like, they confuse […]Read more "The Grays"
Dreaming Through the Dark During the long twilight of winter I become a bulb in the ground— small & still inside myself. I close my eyes, swimming in darkness, willing the pinprick of light to expand until I am my own sun.Read more "Dreaming Through the Dark"
Winter Woods White mist drifts through rain-wet pines. Walking through the forest feels like a waking dream. Rubber soles against dark earth, plastered with shed leaves. Looking up, the sky is no-color. A counsel of cedars surrounds me. The further the trees, the more suffused in mist, until the world becomes a sea of clouds. […]Read more "Winter Woods"
Magicians Father raised bright tiger lilies and roses the color of the sunset, that slow, daily apocalypse. Trumpet vine and Copa de Oro, orange and gold as the wildfires that ate up our dry hills each Fall, when the wind began to howl and rattle our old wooden house. Some nights, we were a family […]Read more "Magicians"
Falling Leaves The monk asked the autumn leaf Are you sad to be falling? The leaf replied by waving to the tree on its way down to feed the soil, singing softly, See you soon!Read more "Falling Leaves"
House Without Mirrors This house is fresh, unspoiled. I want to carve love’s initials in its walls, never lay a hard word against you. In this house, clean of memories, I could still be good to you. New floors, fresh paint, no chairs. [image: Erinn Hargis Photography]Read more "House Without Mirrors"
Cathedral of Leaves Summer is here, and I don’t want to leave my porch. Steeped in slow heat, I sit and let my thoughts unspool, watching the smoke from my burnt offerings tell stories in the sunlight— backlit leaves like stained glass windows. A jay squawks and time stands still . . . I become […]Read more "Cathedral of Leaves"
Milk When I learned your mother hadn’t breastfed you, I wanted to do it. Having no milk, we would have to imagine it. “It tastes like moonlight,” I would say, feeling the silent warmth empty from my breast, a grown man suckling that long denied nourishment, a homecoming. [Meet the Moon | Christian Schloe]Read more "Milk"
Unbreaking The Vase After death spat me out of its dark belly— I had to learn how to breathe again, had to walk through the forest, willing my pain to drop through the soles of my feet into the dirt, the earth transmuting my troubles with its tender indifference. The wind has picked the sorrows […]Read more "Unbreaking The Vase"