the sea was angry-
rolling waves that crashed on the shore,
threatening to take me under,
tossing me about with no effort,
eroding the sand beneath my feet
as i attempted to stand against the oncoming water,
so that all i could do was ride the crest
as it bore me closer to the shore.

and yet, it was safe,
the undertow and riptide were as nothing
to the onslaught of white-tipped waves,
pushing me closer to the land,
so that the treacherous parts of the water
could not take me -
a dangerous protector that could choose
to play with me or destroy me,
and i was powerless to do anything
but ride the waves and trust in the angry sea.

they make the plans,
subdivisions of perfectly aligned streets,
and small lots that were once filled with trees,
building houses that represent
what you're supposed to strive for:
money, opulence, a wealth that now exists in ones and zeroes
on a monthly statement that may or may not even be true,
that we can't even trust,
countless numbers of people being told this is what they want,
filling these homes with extra things
they don't need or use
except when entertaining,
all driven by a company that tells them this is the American Dream -
to live in cookie-cutter houses
with no personality,
no imperfections,
a pretend facade,
to hide the imperfections of ourselves
in the guise of manicured lawns and beige paint.

give me a house that isn't perfect,
that needs paint and maybe a new porch,
where the corners aren't perfectly square,
and the yard grows weeds in between the grasses,
where the gutters need to be cleaned
because the trees are just a little too close,
and the spiders in the basement need to be relocated to outside.
give me the realness of imperfection,
a home that reflects who we are:
a little chaos
a little polish
a little messy
a little comfy
a little crazy
a little loving
a little bit of everything, out in the open
no longer hiding.

there is nothing better
than hearing this:
"i love you."

i wonder if the old bicycle
tied outside,
rusted rims sitting on flat cracked rubber,
knows its owner is never coming back.
but it waits,
a silent vigil being kept
until it's loved again,
and both rider and machine are freed.

i love your eggs,
when you wake up on a saturday before me
and start making breakfast,
or when you think to chill a beer or two ahead of time,
or when you make a point to tell me i look nice...or not.
these little things don't happen all the time,
and they're not necessary,
but i really appreciate them
and the countless other little things you do.
and i wanted to say 'thank-you' today,
because i'm hoping it's a little thing i can do for you.

you can't play the pieces,
they only do what they're told,
moving along at the will of the mind behind,
the game isn't fought on the board,
in structures and traps,
deliberately visible - the true scene unseen.
you have to play the man,
mind racing to out-think you,
to see one move further down the fine line.
you have to understand the imagination -
in order to understand the art.

i have been there.
i have seen what lies on the other side
of this pain you feel,
and i know it may not seem
like it will ever end,
like it will ever heal,
and part of you really wants it to be gone,
and another part wants to hold onto it,
caught between agony and ecstasy,
and in the end -
you're just not certain what will happen
or where it will end up.
you want to know,
but you're afraid of the answer.
yes, i have been there, too,
and i have learned only one thing:
it is survivable,
and when you come out the other side,
you will be stronger than you ever imagined.