It was in an unfortunate place, the tire-swing. It still is.
In my childhood, I planted mountains that grew tall before crumbling into middle-aged rocks.
The scotch you poured over the gravel was amplified and amber.
All along I never knew I would look so good in a hat, so bad in a suit.
Things I know are jockeying for position, hoping not to become things I knew.
Surviving is its own relevance, but enduring is just another concession.
I kept a list composed exclusively of thoughts I had when I was wearing the color green, but all the thoughts turned out to be unfair and wrong.
The world is bright until you look at it.
We say that birds sing, but we would never pay for their music. Sometimes when I notice them, the song is almost comically loud. I wonder if they listen to each other or if their chorus is a series of parallel soliloquies, soloists in autistic unison. The thought is almost too beautiful to bear.
But no, I didn’t think it would turn out like this, me writing a nature thing and turning thirty. I thought by now it was too late to improve upon the valleys, to re-package and deliver them to you with any additional value.
The truth is, I’ve always settled for clichés when I’m near rivers, lakes, oceans.
I am often scared though I’m seldom afraid.
Threatened by pine cones. There are only earth tones.
When I was brash, I believed hands were soft, faces brittle, and tongues papery.
Where I saw love, I thought of bees working, working, working.
I could not see the differences between angels and dogs.
I looked askance, because nowhere could I find the right coat. I wanted the blue one, the one I call Gratitude.
In the cold, I looked somehow larger, and seeing mountains ahead, I fixed my mind’s eye on a picture of the bears I grew up with. Together we ate salmon, and for months, asleep, we would gather dust, and we dreamt of being shafts of light on the forest floor. We saw ourselves successfully fighting our way through the trees and branches all the way back to earth.
In my childhood, I planted mountains that grew tall before crumbling into middle-aged rocks.
The scotch you poured over the gravel was amplified and amber.
All along I never knew I would look so good in a hat, so bad in a suit.
Things I know are jockeying for position, hoping not to become things I knew.
Surviving is its own relevance, but enduring is just another concession.
I kept a list composed exclusively of thoughts I had when I was wearing the color green, but all the thoughts turned out to be unfair and wrong.
The world is bright until you look at it.
We say that birds sing, but we would never pay for their music. Sometimes when I notice them, the song is almost comically loud. I wonder if they listen to each other or if their chorus is a series of parallel soliloquies, soloists in autistic unison. The thought is almost too beautiful to bear.
But no, I didn’t think it would turn out like this, me writing a nature thing and turning thirty. I thought by now it was too late to improve upon the valleys, to re-package and deliver them to you with any additional value.
The truth is, I’ve always settled for clichés when I’m near rivers, lakes, oceans.
I am often scared though I’m seldom afraid.
Threatened by pine cones. There are only earth tones.
When I was brash, I believed hands were soft, faces brittle, and tongues papery.
Where I saw love, I thought of bees working, working, working.
I could not see the differences between angels and dogs.
I looked askance, because nowhere could I find the right coat. I wanted the blue one, the one I call Gratitude.
In the cold, I looked somehow larger, and seeing mountains ahead, I fixed my mind’s eye on a picture of the bears I grew up with. Together we ate salmon, and for months, asleep, we would gather dust, and we dreamt of being shafts of light on the forest floor. We saw ourselves successfully fighting our way through the trees and branches all the way back to earth.
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