I believe that every tree; every swallow;
Every breath of clean air that I draw

Accepts the love I feel towards it,
And responds in my everyday life,

The way any "god" would. 
Thank you for your love. This is for you.

That smile from a stranger; that money
I found, that favourite song of mine on

The radio, was a hug from the trees
(**** human-huggers) of my

Home farm dirt road
Alley, where I walked today

Asking myself how at home a man
Can feel, kissing it all with my eyes.

My everyday life...
That insignificant, poor place

Where my every amazing treasure lies
Unhidden.

I visit the old mill by the creek.  
It hasn't ground a grain in a century.
A ghost of wood and steel and history.
How it still stands is a local mystery.

I want to buy that old mill by the creek.
Rebuild it with glass walls facing the waterfall.
Use the water for electricity.
In the summer, when you visit me,

We'll swim in the pond, it'll be my own pool.
Sip beer on the rooftop, be rockstar cool.
In winter, we'll ice skate my frozen backyard
Before fireplace, whisky, snacks and cards.

I'll build you a guestroom on all three floors.
And secret rooms behind hidden doors.
The automn rains will pound at the wall  
And sing with the sound of the waterfall,

And the song will be that of the miller's ghost.
The house might be mine, but he's still the host.
He loves that his workplace has now become home.
For a hundred years, he's been there alone.  

He'll laugh with the kids of my visiting friends.
He'll dance with the women, and when the fun ends
He'll sit on the rooftop with a ghost cup of tea,
Walk by the willows and thank God for he

Who took the mill ruins and rendered them "home";  
A palace by water of wood, glass and stone.
I thinks of these things, when I visit that mill.
And thanks to my dreaming, it's standing there still.

Two minutes to midnight.
All my windows open to the gentle
Scents of Summer, and the invation
Of winged insects drawn

Towards the single candle
On my living room glass table.
It's as if a pine stripper is dancing
On my lawn,

All perfume and movements that
Sound like breeze and innocent
Lust.
I want to make love to the outside.

Be inside it. Give something back to
These two magical months between
Winters, and at the same time
Worship; move with tears in my eyes

Within optimal actual love.
I smell green; hear dark blue; look
Into the sunset iris of night time
Posing as evening,

And pull words like aces out of my
Worn poetic sleeves, but this is my
Winter coat, and all I can think of is
Snow creaking like doomed souls under

The heel of Anti-Summer Herself.
Meanwhile, Odin and Buddah swing
From a tree in my garden.
All battle muscle and fat carelessness,

And I look out at them chatting
Like little kids on a playground, about
Everything and nothing, and how that's
All there is.

Their words sing to my ears like the
Up-beat hummingbird pulse
Of a newborn's heart, to a young mother's
Own.

I sat back in my chair, as I slowly raised my skirt, exposing my right thigh, all with a smile and a wink.

From across the room you glided, landing in the seat next to me, in a dimly lite room.

The whiskey on your tongue, though faint, is intoxicating.  The scent, heated by your breath, pales all truths.

As we leave to sojourn privately, I notice you watching each cheek rise to the occasion, while my stride picks up speed.

Whether you're here in the morning is insignificant to my appetite for sensation, so pardon me if I do not return your calls.  For one moment, (this moment)  - you mattered.

It's mid-July but in my heart, it is winter;
I curl up in the back of a closet, wrapped in blankets
and the scent of salty water and seaweed crawls up my nostrils
until I'm choking;
it engulfs me, a cold embrace, the breeze piercing me
through clothes that somehow feel like a fisherman's net
twisted around me, leaving marks on my skin.
It's mid-July but in my heart, it is winter;
like driftwood washed upon the shore,
like sand sifting through my fragile fingers,
like an imminent sea storm, danger impending,
memories crush me.
Sunburnt skin, goosebumps and droplets of water;
bodies pressed, wounds left to heal
and scars that slowly fester.
There's something autumnal in summer,
gashes bleeding ink.
It's mid-July but in my heart, it's winter:
remember, remember when we used to sit
under birches, lashes shiny with droplets
of dreams,
remember, remember, bicycles, children with eyes bright and green,
freckled faces, salty-tasting kisses,
scorching sun and summer winds.
Midnight storms, skies lightened, torn
by lightning bolts --
July is not the time for eulogies,
remember lazy afternoons, you, me, the boat,
regret always tastes as bitter
as children's lips just slightly touching
far away from coast.
It's mid-July but in my heart, it's winter;
the tide will wash away another fisherman's corpse;
remember all the tales of sirens?
You never told me Death came with hair of gold.
There's nothing quite so sad as being sad in summer.
It is July, and yet outside it snows.

I have a mouth, but I cannot speak.
I have two eyes, but I cannot see.
I have two ears, but I cannot hear.
I have two feet, but I cannot walk.
I have two hands, but I cannot touch;
I cannot feel not even a single thing.
Is this the one, the numbness that I feel?

                    I have a body, but we are apart.
            I am complete, but I feel empty in my  
                                                                     heart.
                    I must be missing pieces of me.
             But I am whole, why can I not see?!
    These holes inside, they cannot be filled.             
             My dilapidated house, must never be
                                                                  rebuilt.
               Please stay away and leave me be.  
            My isolation is what keeps me sane,
                                                         ­                      
                                          ­         **it sets me free