for desperate want of a hobby or two
people gardened her.
spending sweet days sowing
and sweater nights
grafting desire through the limbs.

how many of these seeds fell
down into the cracks
of what they thought deserved?
which ones sprouted up the veins
of what was needed?

I'd like to focus on the moon,
but the sun is before me

as I move ever closer
to the water.

That's the only way
I'm quite sure.

It falls and peeks
behind branches and leaves.

Firm edges blurring
as the smoke

which made it red
makes it harder to read.

I
learned
something today.
Light begins as a point.
But with time expands in a conical fashion
diameter growing as it encompasses more and more of its surroundings.

Is it enough that the light reaches regardless of
brilliance? Would you tell the light to stop?
Could you ask it to conserve its energy?

Or should we turn off the
vacuum, put up our
walls and give the
light a finite
space to
shine
on.

Have you been here before?

One foot in front of the other
blazing stainless snow with purpose.
Forward
forward through unwitnessed beauty and feeling
not the first appreciator
but the final stroke
in a work of art that has lain dormant for as long as you can remember
but was completed in a breath.

An exhale, specifically.
That's all it took.
Yes steaming silently out of your mouth
like a yawn held too long on a winter morning.

Forward but not necessarily straight.

Dancing with no partner
Glancing back only to see the web of your solitary foxtrot
laid bare on the forest floor.
This tangled path
danced to no music
aided by no person
you almost believe it's your story.
And then you look up.

Steady lights framed by such known walls.
Streams of quiet smoke filter into the atmosphere
and sound returns.
Laughter songs and well-worn voices rush to you.

And here in the forest leaves crackle.