The Position of My Dreams

There’s geography in my dreams,

Where ribbons recoil and poetry joins

Our discussions, bookmarked…

Like the body that remembers,

Or the navigation between us, where

I sit hundreds of miles to the north.

What We Choose to See

Your fires start with the sound of the axe splitting wood in the garage.  Only a man who’s in love with me would build me a fire.  I admire your wintered masculinity, the leather gloves you wear as you carry the bundles of split wood into the house, the focus of fire pressed deep into your eyes, the scent of cold ash that escapes from the open glass door of the wood stove, and the splinters that stick like lint to your sweatshirt.  With every fire, you kneel before the wood stove with your back to me: I see the backside of prayer.  

Childhood Light

The beauty of the mountain evolves with each season and impregnates my mind.  It becomes an ever-growing presence, dovetailing its wild and mystic manner with life on Glen Echo Road.  Shades of green, amber, and sunflower yellow sporadically slip off the mountain and into the paintings I create in my room.  There is always something for me to see, I just need to look for it.  And I find, regardless of the seasons, that love and loss is simultaneously cradled, almost as if they rely on each other for their existence.  There is no way to separate them from one another.  I scribble the day’s event in my diary.  Love opens up, always knowing the right words.  I watch a golden globe for a sun sink in the backdrop outside my bedroom.  The moonbeams come out early in the summer.  We’ve tried to catch them outside our house before…standing there with empty jars and lids, our arms swinging together, crashing like cymbals.  How long will the light live?