I often sit under the moonlight and listen to what the night has to offer; 

Sometimes it offers more than you think. 

I listen to the soft rustling of the leaves, 

The crispy cold breeze that blows through my hair, 

And the gentle touch of the night. 

One night, I see someone sitting at my sacred spot. 

I wonder what brings them here so late. 

I walk up to the bench and take a seat on the other end of the bench. 

“Who are you?” I ask, voice soft as a sigh. 

“Who am I?” they murmur, a faraway reply. 

I gaze at the stranger, 

and the only person I see is myself staring back at me, 

I have become a stranger to … 

myself.  

we weren't even close to fairy tales. but

your hands clasped in mine felt like satiny silk

on a wedding dress made for

this warmth that pricks my heart full of

blood and oxygen that tastes of you

in the back of my throat, tastes of salt

and the tentative blackberry jam of your lips

so soft i imagined i was pressing my mouth to a bumblebee

like i call you when i call you and my voice is staticky through a stereo so different

from the chemical scent filling the room from the markers we left open on the floor from the december-suited nutmeg

scent of your hair that i press into my beating chest

smiling to split the world

and my heart because

we are made of fairy tales.

 A green tea bag is baking cold out on my porch

A piece of gray rock from the quarry wanted to be torched

Whipped cream pecks your cheeks with specks and flecks of blue

Your mother called; she said don’t worry about you

The chickens in the yard scratch and scream and doubt

Wrought wind twists and spins and grasps and pulls and gives up with a shout

A moment’s notice of a day brought coffee to your door

Beaten rays of sun shine down more golden than before

I wove a web of broken bones and islands cast astray

A dying town gave up it’s crown to send lost words my way

A strand of birch bark wished for dewdrops, not fire but for rain

The urgent embrace of mossy white lace makes it all the same

A strand of unrelated texts was sent to me by him at gym one noon

Your eyebrows have overgrown like a peacebird for a boon

A beach ball bounced across the ground and out to sea at last

A bud of colt’s foot sprang up too late; the moment had passed

So be the trees, the honey bees, the aging cheese, the moon

The thickets and the thrushes have got to be somewhere soon.

Slender limbs fan out,

Parallel to the sky

Instead of reaching,

Wanting to be the open blue,

Accepting that

Though the tree will never

Soar so high,

Its beauty

Stands alongside it,

Just smaller,

So only those

Who put a pen

To paper,

An eye

Through the monocle

Of their hope,

Can see the branches

Cascading to the moss-bedded floor,

Sweeping

Across the dew-sparkling grass,

Soaking up every drop

Of love,

               Of beauty,

To make every petiole

                                         A petal,

Every leaf

                   A blossom,

Rising

To the miracle of earth,

Still parallel

To the sky,

But also

To the tears of its roots.