Wednesday, August 7, 2013


this is how i remember August being:
soft light
lush greenery wet
with the dew of morning and
thick with the songs of cicadas
every hour through the day--
drizzly late morning gray
warm and endless

this is what i did not Remember;
this is what is new:
i have created days
yoga on duck lake docks
palms brown with dirty pollen planks
and a mat i need to replace

it is chipmunk swamps on my walk home
fluttering ivy five stories above
a train track that throttles with iron wheels distant
and a how-did-that-get-there (probably-a-squirrel) fish
on a back "country" road

that leads to my home

the last month that i swam inside the womb
pushing against the otherside of my mother's skin
pleading the world be ready for me)

it is the BOOM of the industrial age
just across the street from my home
the THWACK of wooden beams that bend and break
in the lumber yard next to an abandoned propane tank shop
where i used to wonder why the flame was always lit

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