it’s one of those days where the only cure is to jam out to sweet tunes and cut off all my hair.
(this is a place i belong, and know)
every river has its own courage,
returning again to its birth.
things die and are born
even the earth, it hides
its emotions beneath the mountains,
inside oceans and flowers and trees—
secret, but still alive
the earth loves, like every living thing,
even the forgotten
veins, exposed and gasping
in the dust
we have this notion that we rule,
like gods, that we fill space
and air and land
but we cant comprehend our place
except from the sky, looking down
or looking up into the night; there
we find what it means to be small and
moving back into dying light,
time i will never experience
but what i had was beautiful,
and that is enough.
- the dust dances too
wonder is folded into everything.
before, and after
the air and lightning (where words travel)
the grass and ocean puddles
—drops of rain
in the creases of our palms
the simple way
our hearts know the rhythm of each other.
there are things only the pines know:
secrets and dreams
ripe and sweet scented—
i remember once, the way it felt getting lost
and the way the air curled itself against us,
the taste of it on our tongues
when we howled at the moon,
there was no world
except this one, this world we created
lost beneath the branches.
and i knew that even if we,
like wolves, were to devour that love,
it would still exist somewhere in our blood steam.