into the wind

 reflection of gold aspen leaves
against blue sky
in the rectangle of
the hot spring pool
that natacha and i
sit/soak/swim/talk in for a duration
that sees the ice patches on our walk in
turn to puddles on our way out
(and the air warming to a temperature
that renders the steam that rose from the pool
when we first arrived
invisible by the time we towel off)
we trade details of our morning routines
her: wake and make hot lemon tea
and return to bed with it
where she writes morning pages
then makes breakfast
me: yoga or run (every other day tradeoff)
extravagant breakfast often involving
a tortilla, sauteed vegetables (featuring kale) and an egg
bird sounds sent
from the northern california coast
accompanying me
i’m glad to know i say
our spirits walk this earth together
snow on sunday mara says
in her studio surrounded by
black velvet
rarely does a poet speak for me
she says sipping licorice tea
like i called out into the wind and finally hear
my own voice come back to me
9something pm
moth skittering on small square of
west-facing window
lit up by the small table-top lamp below
in one conversation
my friend reveals the thirteen years
of death threats and extreme manipulation
she endured and found her way out of
and in another
a different friend tells me
that she is a survivor
(that she was raped)


15574014048_12c8a66c31_k  15573680119_b2b35cc47a_k



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