Tag Archives: sky

reverse snow

how i fill the morning with the smell of boiling/steeping cardamom, star anise, cinnamon, fennel, burdock, chicory and dandelion

the rattle of mason jars in boxes
as we jostle the collection of reminders
from porch and living room to larry’s car
from which we watch the fall colors and risefall of farmland unfolding as we roll up the long and gradual hill out of town towards the most beautiful trailer park on the planet

sunlight moving through the milkweed that climbs/floats up around us (reverse snow says either jennnifer or larry)
as we pluck the soft feathery poofs from their pods
release them in the general direction
of texas

the smell  she says standing against the kitchen island in the light seeping in through sliding door in the kitchen and i can’t recall if this is before or after the incident involving a hand carved spoon (lines and whorls in blueblack and blondish)
that can’t be washed away

the way emma on the sidewalk where we three stand in sun and under trees says the word progress a dead giveaway of her
canadian roots

eggshell, illuminated
jesus’s aura
mary’s aura
light through lace curtains
this evening’s names
for colors in the sunset sky
the smell of garden-plucked basil (gathered before another damaging frost)
drfting up the back porch stairs and into the kitchen


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naming sky

the way one of the windows pefectly frames the tall conifers scraping sky
in the neighbor’s yard as seen from the couch
where i peruse the national geographic issue on gender
she hands me a clump of bright pink succulent-like blossoms
fallen to the sidewalk and i pin them
into my updo swirls
lemon ice, new copper, blue vein, grayberry, and rose cantaloupe/cantaloupe rose

we practice the whole naming-sky-at-sunset-colors thing again

a name for the meals that get picked at and go cold
or are slowly effortfully eaten (moving food around in mouth as if it were a ball of clay)
because of these things in us called hearts layered with all the complexities of being human
and how there are words and not words
for all of it

sacred assignment she says when i name my work as to trust and hers as honesty

sticking around she says with a question mark and i feign arm-to-arm, side-to-side
glued-togetherness, joking
that we might need to go down to the hardware store
in order to remedy the situation

for tradition’s sake  she says
eating a spoonful of mint chocolate chip ice cream from my bowl

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sidewalk rewilding

4:25am and we are driving into the moon
which is an orangegold sickle slicing the inkdark sky
on the edge of late night/early morning
and then there is also the toss of star-gems tumbled across all the darkness
the gratitude i have for a driver
who slows down appropriately
(way way way down)
when the shine of deer eyes roadside
reflect back at us
i know nothing about this woman
cleaning this bathroom at union station (chicago)
except for the absolute absence
i encounter in her eyes, her body
(husk, shell)
when i ask if the stall she was just cleaning in
is now open
and how she responds with the emptiest emptiness
the bee who, even here, just across the way from the tallest building
in the western hemisphere
lands near the tip of my pen as i write this
among the jackhammering,
the pfffffffft of busses releasing air from their hydraulics,
and the two men just down the block who shake
the change at the bottom of tall empty cups asking
pumpkin crumpet i laugh with isa who i call from along the river,
 voice to voice not face to face though we are in the same city
what says yes to me and how i say yes back
as the train roll-rocks north and west
from near madison:
the birch/poplar trees – their skinny trunks singing bright white against all the other treeness
and the conifers dotting the scape
and the way the land curves and folds and
the rock/cliff formations rising alongside rivers and creeks

how it is good that there is a bench
for our bodies to land on
so our cells can say the things back and forth
that our words have been saying for weeks now
the sidewalk rewilding itself
on the stretch we walk
between train station and pho
a river of night traffic on our left and
the water and beaver homes
on our right
robbie in the room down the way
a typewriter on the desk in the room we inhabit (a royal)
sometimes we have to keep quiet
though the floorcreakas might give us away and i want to know
if there is a name for the sound i can hear
inside the un-made noise
(how that unmade noise is a presence, a kind of cave, tunneling down through opened mouth and length of larynx and root of guts and)
from the water world:

A boy collects recyclable plastic bottles drifting with garbage along the coast of Manila Bay at the slum area in the Baseco Compound in metro Manila, Philippines.

Dead fish float in the Confuso river near Villa Hayes, Paraguay, 30 kilometers north of the capital Asuncion.

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the rain that never came

super bulk! i call out to emory who,
in order to transport all the extra layers – we removed from his hooks in the back hallway pileup has donned every single item of clothing
super bulk! he echoes/calls back
before running the clothes down to lookfar before heading out to school
the rain that never came
(which means frisbee was still on and all the lawn got mowed and all the logs up on slater’s hill were picked up and hauled off and the laundry dried on the line)

something hilarious about frisbee,
chortling and doubling over
at the bad throws and the missed catches and how we get stuck turning over and turning over in the corner of the east endzone

the purple shinyish new berlin
eisenhower high school soccer jersey
that robbie love wears in honor of our recent discovery
of having attended the same high school – having graduated 16 years apart
and i am surprised/impressed that the jersey seems ot be the exact same version of the jersey of 20-some years ago
and it turns out it may well be 
from that era
(my teammates found this old box of jerseys  he says)

baigz dishing out wedges of his flourless chocolate cake
which i probably shouldn’t eat this late (caffeine) but i do
along with a dollop of ‘ice cream’
(frozen banana blended up with just shelled hazelnuts)
meet you in the lionbrary  she says
which is different than the enclosure and the savannah
and everytime i hear it
i can’t help but laugh at the sweet awkwardness
of the word

it is ours she writes
of the moon
it follows us home

wherein i joke about a course named
finding out how hard the floors are
and the course is at capacity
when one student enrolls
the thin gauze/veil/scrim clouds
traveling surprisingly fast
across the glow of the almost-full moon
as seen from cool ranch porch 

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we made a pact

the chainsaw humbuzz whine-whir
coming down from slater’s hill
and i think about the sound vocabulary
i have learned here
(in other words, that sound = baigz in orange safety gear
dancing around a trunk/log/branch and weilding the heavy-to-me machine
and moving it through wood with ease
like a sending the blade of a hot knife through butter.)

the first time in a week and a half+  i report
that the squirrels didn’t wake me up with their
scritchy scratchy frenetic fall energy.
we made a pact

how the sunset – gold foil crinkled across sky with redpink light reflecting off – distracts me, pulls me outside onto the backroad
and then to my desk 
which means i never say goodbye to dean our dinner guest
nor do i show up to sit 
with the sangha

i have a secret/not-so-secret dream i write
that is a couple acres (or more) big. the dream has flowers in it. and two writers making salsa. and sunrises. and spaciousness. and it has two baskets, so i don’t have to put all my eggs in one. or maybe even ten baskets. and it is filled with discernment and heart-led risks.
leaf-crunch footsteps approaching
and then soles on floorboards and then
dottie at my door
holding up an offering in the glare of my desklight:
a jeaux-made cookie
sugar or snickerdoodle
soft and sweet
the kind of evening that
i could nightwander for miles in
under the luminance
of the swelling moon and through the
slight breeze and air so light staying at a temperature that drops no lower than 70

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with a swiftness

the thank-you note in my scrawl
addressed to ghana regarding the delicious and perfect chocolate chip cookies
the sweat in beadlets along the curve of baigz’s back
as a small crew of us move through the patches of recently germinated carrots
thinning and weeding
in the hoophouse heat
sparkle and spice written
on the tell-tale blue (a mini banner)
affixed to the silver holographic pencil
just under its hot pink eraser topper
liek the pencil has an announcment to make
which it does
a list of symptoms addressed
to dr. danger
read in the hammock
where white pine limbs and needles plus wind
make that particular and most magnificent sound
as if the needles are combing the air that moves through
as seen from the back road
where two cats (mama and ashby) trot behind me
hwo the low cloud is dark/gray and it moves with a swiftness over the higher puffier whiter cloud
and that’s not even to mention
all the varying edges
and orange pink light and how earlier
emory exploded through the front door while some of us sat to dinner
exclaiming it was so beautifullllll!!!!! about the seriously
highway-to-heaven sunray sky
he encountered on the ride home
rough concrete of the cistern top below me as i recline under sky
and take in flashes of light that travel the clouds heading east –
how at their edges, constellations reveal themselves
another light-a-candle-don’t-turn-on-the-lights night
in which, before i light the candle,
i loft-lay in the breeze of the fan at the end of what might be the last 90-degree day of the season
to watch the green world glow and darken
in the lightning
the sound of ashby’s claws in the screen
wanting in 
but i don’t let him because it might be
too warm inside
for his comfort
from the water world:


A Hindu devotee performs “Pind Daan” – rituals for the soul of ancestors – in the river ganges at Phaphamau, Allahabad, India – voice of america, day in photos

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all the crumbs

adult raccoon and young one not far behind
scooting across the gravel road i run on
five feet in front of me

post-run snack plucked right up
from the foresty floor:
persimmons – perfectly soft and what is the name
for the feel of that soft fruit skin against my fingers
and then there is the entire branch heavy with fruit
that broke off and now hangs from a peg outside my room
for the purpose of ripening, but also looking like a quite fine fall decoration
the flurry and yellow/gold of bees funneling
in and out of a little tunnel/pit in the ground in lemony morning light
alongside the path down towards the old canada road
where we usually don’t drive the tractors through if it’s even the slightest bit wet
because they always get stuck
cynthia braces me for the sadness
of the carolina parakeet
people would shoot at it for sport
and the thing about the carolina parakeet is that
when one of the flock dies, they all come to gather around it
reminds me of (white) people shooting at bison
from train windows
just because there were so many and
just because they could


how i get down on the astroturf floor
in the empty upstairs of the mennonite store on highway two
(where one can serve themselves their own soft serve ice cream)
to cuddle with the stuffed animal tiger
sprawled out on the floor,
and it doesn’t stop there – ghana and i take turns hugging the hippo, the crocodile, the pig, the various kinds of dogs, the sheep, the elephant and trish cuddles up with the panda
and i joke about meeting our
hug quota for the day
and even though they are just stuffed animals (well, i always thought they were alive anyway),
my heart feels squishier and my body lighter afterwords

all the crumbs the dutch letters leave (in this case, S’s) on ghana and trish and i
after we delight in the final food indulgence of our day
out on highway two
hitting up all the amish and mennonite stores
trish showing me one of the 
happy salmon moves
(flapping a hand against another’s forearm)
in preparation for a game she suspects i’ll love
and based on this alone, her suspicion is correct

mid-september sunset
(sky so crispclear
and the contrast fo clouds against it –
some in the general shape of a great spine curving along the southwest edge of sky
and light lowering (orange)
and how somehow it all smells/tastes/is colored something like
a september taos sky
(a call from three septembers past echoing out into the future – now)

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