we move through

6something a.m. in the darkness
and things i would normally laugh at
in decent hours most likely won’t become funny
until at least 8am

the constant, though imagined – but i swear i can hear them
sing chorus sound of the spring peepers
in the background
of everything
most of the day
this part of the coast
comes with
laughing on an early morning amtrak bus
headed south about butt cakes and muck boots
and how if we switched the phrases it’d be
muck cakes and butt boots and how these would work
as knuckle tattoos as well:
muck cake
butt boot
and then laughing again about kindergarten-teachering
randy who refuses to be nice
(would you want to be treated that way, randy?)
all while the low-lying cloudgray dew damp fog sings
as lichen, as moss, as coniferous needles
filling the coastal, then inland valleys we move through

sitting across andrew and christie at the dinner table
which just happens to be hurtling through time/space
on a south bound train,
jennifer at my side, when andrew says something
about working for amazon i ask
ok, so, do you have a mini basketball court and
bean bags and m&ms and fun/cool stuff
in your office
the snow, the trees, the train moving through it

and our view of it all from the sleeper car
(where everything is mini)
and the tears in my eyes and me saying
i love this place
and later: not as in ‘here’ but as in
this planet, this universe



back over the wave

gigantic windchimes sending soft sound
on the winds that knock through them
on a porch across the way
alongside the sway of multicolored bouys hanging
on thick rope in a tree

how the wind picks up the spray of surf and sends it
backwards back over the waves
as they crash forwards
and then ther’s the way that the morning light lands
and moves through it all
the hint of purplepink on the tips and edges
of thin and tiny petals of some small daisies
i pluck from a sideyard on my return
from the ocean hello and morning run
one thing i want to bring with
but am unable to:
the entire swaths of dark sand
and all the glimmers dotted across them

the tiny bell that tells

the fog gathering around the tree-filled point
that we beach-walk towards, wondering if its fog
that just looks like fog from a distance but that we’ll never reach or
fog that we’ll eventually be able to touch/feel/see/walk through
how donna, never having met us before, somehow knew
of the tradition of briging the workshop instructors
with chocolate (she hands one bar to each of us)
the tiny bell that tells us that time is up and
the floorspill of photos we get to pick from
and the encouragement to write fear-wards and
using every river/water related sense i can
in 5 minutes or less
while the room is quiet
with this concentration
i’m like a dog always rolling over to show
its belly or  bending in half, not necessarily submissive,
but using this smiling and open face to let other sknow
i have no intention of aggressing upon them
i say

in the clearing // i sing

something about the day
(its light, its temperature)
that makes it a kind of day
that implores one
to walk into/through it
(a literal, not figurative, walk)


to make room for practice after observing
it weakens the weave of the fabric of us


one of your gifts is that you care, capital C care he says
how can you do that in a liberatory, non-coercive way
and then he reads

the marge piercy poem
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds…


up in the clearing on slater’s land
the sunlight hitting a strip of clouds just right enough
to make a two-color rainbow in it


walking the hard-packed snow and
mooshy gravel
i sing
to the road, the trees, the sun, the sky, the cows, the birds
trish talking about the waves (contractions)
and how alyssa coached her through them
(you’re not riding them, you’re diving under them and getting curious as they pass over)


you really need to have a baby trish jokes about the meals people have been bringing because you’d really like the food

shape and shadow

some things about the fresh and powdery snow
and walking 3.5 miles in it:
1. it’s terrible for snowballs
2. jack the jack russell kicks it up like dust when he runs through it
3. the way it lays itself over the land reveals
its curves and slopes (shape
and shadow can really be seen)
more than the land on its own can
4. revealing what often remains invisible:
deer prints
cat prints
canine prints
little skittering bird prints
5. how it shimmer-glitters in the sun and, upon
a good close look, rainbows are revealed –
better seen with blurred eyes
(the glitter is green it is blue it is yellow it is red)
6. how blue it makes the shadow and the shades of sky
and how gold it makes the dried corn
the yellow of the turmeric and the yum of the caraway
in the pint jar of gigi’s kraut
that gigi and stan set
at the dinner table
and how that kraut is all
i want to eat
for the meal
eric digging through some of kris’s art-stuff/jewelry-making stuff
on the lookfar couch while kris fingerpaints a huge swath of cardboard
and i’m cutting file folders into cards and baigz
is blending song after song praciticing his DJ moves
says this is a dope-ass trinket right here
from the water world:

Priests from Nepal carry holy water from the River Ganges as they return after taking a Holy dip at the Sangam, the confluence of the rivers Ganges, Yamuna and mythical Saraswati in Allahabad, India.

calling out the things we can see

em in his high-up-there tree perch
and me in my close-to-the-ground tree hammock
(of two fallen trunks, horizontalish, running side by side)
calling out the things we can see from where we are
to find out if the other can see them as well
such as: the whitehouse roof
the tiny black dots on the nearby tree trunk
the horse barn
and the three slightly varying patches of gray overhead
in a seemingly single-gray colored sky
the cacophony of birds
which is more like clouds of song
and less like noise
as em and i add long dead skinny limbs
to the fort of tree island
perched on the rusted dusty greenhouse table/shelf/ledges 
emory and i take turns picking cards and discarding
playing several rounds of rummy
and keeping score with a sharpie on the back of a used seed packet
eric and i knocked out
with day-after-the-first-ultimate-frisbee-games
from our ribs to our calves,
how we are paused in time with the pain
for a while around the lunch hour
kris describing that sweet smell
of the first spring day of open windows
how it fills a room, a house, a heart
how there is no sweetness like it
while i revel in the spring-ness
peppered with climate-change concern

stay green

how does it stay green i ask
about the vibrant vegetation along read’s creek
whose water runs clear and
features dark fish darting
and whose gurgling and bubbling – the consistent yet small variations
is just complex and soothing enough
to want to listen to for hours
the ripple patterns across
the creek surface where rocks posit themselves
not far below the surface:
a kind of crosshatching
but always moving
jennifer punching
the cattail whose fluff
is everywhere including
on her hat and mouth and nose and jacket
and later i dub her
with a stalk of shaken-out seed pods
while a driver-by can be seen laughing
through the window

first we cannot tell if the commotion
is the squeak-squawk-screeching
of a pilleated woodpecker or a squirrel
so we pause
at the mailboxes
until there is movement: birdflight in flashes of white/black/red
wherein we measure and record
the ratios/amounts
of roasted roots (chickory, dandelion, burdock) with all the other spices,
including but not limited to: cardamom, peppercorns, fennel, anise, star anise
pursuing the million dollar tea experiment #1

i thanked the chicken i say
about the healing soup
floating with rice and veggies and eggs in
the broth of chicken

seven damn degrees! i exclaim
about tuesday’s predicted high temperature