Anxious.
Like the attachment style.
Becoming involved,
and over-thinking everything.
That's what you called that, right?
Over-thinking
these old insecurities that I can
never seem to
quite push
away
for good
while my pen bears its ink
down into and past the current
page because all my muscles
are tight
and my stomach is
sick
and my mind
is distracted.

You. You. You.

She'll pick you up,
put you down
once she's read your pages
and harvested your words.
Is it true?

I've been discarded before.

Tried to trap the bird,
what a foolish mistake,
and it flew away
leaving my hands full
of ashes.
I've pushed too hard
and clung too tightly
and lost it all
many times.

I get nervous, but I know my center.

I see your wings,
a magnificent ocean blue
which have been carved
through years of struggle.
Never think that I do not.
I would never deign
to clip them.
I would never make that mistake again.

But I, too, have my share of books
which I have picked up,
read fully,
or half-way,
and put down,
discarded.
I have lifted from branches
and flown further
when I've been trapped,
clipped.

I get nervous.

I want to stay,
more than anything,
but there is fire in my wings,
and fire in yours too.
We are certainly
birds of a feather,
so I wonder,
can we not,
could we not,
should we not,
fly together?

a tree
young sappling grown
in fertile soil well  sunned and dappled
grew hard strong tall and known
to all the creatures of the forest

his free
dancing in the breeze
drew squirrels from far and near
every creature within the bounds
of the forest around to see and hear

his breath
of maturity at a young ripe
age the color of his bark so clear
his limbs as strong as any seen

brought wide acclaim fame
and infamy because
one day he had the nerve to
walk away

pull up roots
make a way down the mountain top
to a place the evergreen
is not supposed to be

right in the middle of the
river flowing
and it weren't no breeze
nor typhoon

that set him there
it was his own free will
and he cooled his root and
sang hymns

to her

sweet day,
birds kissing
the air in
rapid flight.

we wait, stones
of the morning
sun

for the white
sky to
settle its clouds

ghosts of the
faint breeze
tremble the leaves.

it is still cold,

april peels its
skin like a snake.

forsythia lounges
with beech and
rhododendron
(shiny with waxy
leaves)
painting its
impressions on
the fainting world.

the trees stutter
weird and heavy
glowing in the
light.

I cross my heart and hope to die.

That's what you said...

Cross your heart and hope to die
That you would never leave me.

But I'm the one left standing here, hoping to die.

For its MY heart that you have crossed.

It's obvious, isn't it?
When two similar planets pass by
each other
and get caught in
each other's
gravity.
It's obvious what must happen here.
The words not said
scream loud enough to
bridge the hundreds of miles,
and we still don't
say them.
Not yet.
It's obvious we haven't been here before.
Into uncharted waters,
we move so
very
slowly,
careful not to create waves
before we meet in the center,
careful not to misstep,
so that we can
do things right
for once.
It's obvious.