I wake up to snow falling steadily,

from a dream of kissing friends and lovers kissing friends.

The snow seems to say: Does it matter? There is no history. 

Or not one that cannot be erased.

It's the steadiness of the falling––rhythmic, endless,

like watching the water drip off the roof into Maria's dog's bowl,

too big an infinity for your mind.

When I read the old words, I can't help but sift through them for the grit,

the flakes of gold, the hidden meaning like a threat among threads untangled.

I cannot reread without waiting to see if more years have brought new clarity.

I'm slow to everything today, Hilary says to you,

I want to be slow. Slow in the snow.

You watch the snow out the window as it falls,

telling you there is no history, but the falling,

the slow accumulation of so many fast movements.

Like ships passing in the night

I lost sight of you a long while ago 

In the ocean of life

I no longer hear your foghorn cry

Forlorn as it goes by

Only the breeze greets me

Saltily

In the dark glow 

Of midnight.

gardener

She was never much of a gardener, but she sings to trees

Learns their names like prayers, in the fall collects the golden leaves

When the rain is cold and the day is night

A fire at her feet

They found a way to grow

A two-thousand year old seed

This is what hope looks like

Believing in life endlessly believing in life

Everyone told her to look for the land of milk and honey

Honking cars, burning money, casual catastrophes

How good or evil is the praying mantis or the honeybee?

She was never much of a gardener, but she sings to trees

They found a way to grow

A two-thousand year old seed

This is what hope looks like

Believing in life endlessly believing in life

Out her window there’s a maple and I know

Down in Virginia by the road her friend’s river birch grows

In the bed mixed with the reeds

The roots whisper from tree to tree

She may not understand, but she is always listening

They found a way to grow

A two-thousand year old seed

This is what hope looks like

Believing in life endlessly believing in life

They found a way to grow

A two-thousand year old seed

This is what hope looks like

Believing in life endlessly believing in life

Believing in life endlessly believing in life

She was never much of a gardener, but she sings to trees

dia de los muertos

Walking around with a bunch of carnations

In my mind I put everyone in face paint

White and black skeletons dance in the street

I move through the crowd and it parts like the sea

A year like a marker on a track 

I keep running my finger over each time I come back

It’s repetitive I’m always roaming and remembering

looking for something

You were afraid of her, you were afraid of me

But I loved her still, felt her sadness within me

She is not a thing to understand

She’s an ocean that beats and caresses the land

I do not need you to hold my hand

Estoy llorando, estoy llorando, estoy llorando

I will not sit silent

Estoy llorando, estoy llorando, estoy llorando

In the face of this violence

Caminando con un ramo de claveles

En mi mente todas las caras llevan pintura

Esqueletos bailan en la calle y cuando paso

la muchedumbre abre y cierra como el mar

The sun does so much for my soul.

Holds me everywhere and I am a whole

for a moment, all the goodness of the world

is mine.

marina

we bonded over both wanting to be mothers

perhaps it is a silly thing given we are not yet mothers

will not be for sometime, may never become them

this morning I cut roots for my tea

orange and yellow, earthy

it soothes me to think there is something I can do to help myself

I wonder why there were no masters programs for writing or art 

why we continue to undervalue such things

why we perpetuate the idea that they are not successful by not giving them money

flicking on the stove for the tea to boil

thinking there may be a time when I no longer write words to music

let them spill out with only their own sounds to defend them

Do you think the band ending means the end of music for you? Claudia asked in the park

You said No immediately, but what meant you meant was: kind of, maybe.

this morning, reaching for a pen,

feeling the old familiar feeling

a poem growing inside of me, 

like a child.

"as your grandmother would say," your mother says

what is it right now that you are unable to swallow?

the question hits you in the chest even though it is so obvious

(the question that is, not the answer)

the answer is everything

the answer is

    time

    life

    death    daily tragedies

                the impermanence of beauty

                uncertainty

like a pot on the stove

forgotten

                you are waiting for it to 

                                                       boil over

                that is the lump in your throat

                        that causes you fear

living in the past and the present and the future

            the thin line between what is real and what is not

the power we have to define this

                        the weakness we have in its face

the pepto bismol is so pink

in your hand

                    "you can take some, but I don't think it'll do you any good"

your mother says.

i.

 silly girl, how could you think you were alone

when you are surrounded by plants, living

plants giving you air, taking in your toxic waste

with each exhale loving you and making your life

possible.

ii.

foolishly you forget that you are not the center of the universe

iii.

how could you expect to not feel loneliness? to not have days

weeks maybe even years where you felt sadness (hopefully not 

years) you who has always been so

sensitive

vi.

yet even your skin even your breath even your thoughts even your mind

even your feet even your fingers even your fingernails even your bellybutton

even your tongue even your blood even your words even your tone even the way you

look at people has come to you from other people

you are made of other people of other things living and non living 

millions of other things

v.

it is the way you choose to look at the world that is your own.