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Laughing, I say that I always fall in love
at the end of March:

"Maybe it's the winter sun, forgotten, thawing out again,
dripping its rays on my serotonin-deprived shoulders."

"Or could it be Christ? Hallelujah! He's risen again!
I praise the Lord, clasp my hands, recite Psalm 3.1415!
The word of the Lord. Thanks be to God."

But perhaps it's none of that, maybe
I've found my soulmate, mi media naranja.
Maybe the word at should be changed to with:

I've fallen in love with the end of March;
and I will see you again next year, my love.
Camilla Green Feb 25
Oatmeal Cookies
My little, half-lit, spellbound eyes
are barely being held together
by a net of veiny scarlet thread
woven there by a smoky green spider.
They peer at you with an absurdity,
a simple foolishness we all know,
while an unprompted oatmeal cookie slipped
out of your hand and into mine.

6:17 AM
Walking was once so weightless.
But now I move slowly, thoughtlogged, waterful:

I carry the weight of your umbrella
painted by the rain above us three weeks ago
and that jar we both liked is straining my arms;
you said I was no rock, but a mineral,
and I feel that stone in my hand and then
you sent a text wrapped in pink ribbon
that tied me to the clouds and I
pull them with me against the wind

to me, you are like gravity,
and I am about to hit the ground.

Water's Gravity/ The Ocean's Gravity
You are the tides of water and waves,
and I am but the shell giver.
You rush in so quickly, running waves on my back
I cherish your embrace and unfurl my hand
I gift you my polished pebbles, rust-colored and snow dapples shells, of coral carcasses, oyster shells, sea urchins, and sundried seaweed,
your clear blue velvet envelops them, wraps around me, painting my skin with sand until I am almost pulled under
and although your waves leave my hands,
their subtle surface tension whispers/sighs/weeps:
please, never let me go!
I watch the horizon rise as I sink alongside the sunset,
smiling with the bend of the sky because
I haven't felt gravity in a while.

(envelops them, as your waves))/ you pull away scraping my shells along for the ride, but as you leave me my dear, I will have you know, that when your waves left my hands, their subtle surface tension screamed: please, never let me go!

And I still feel your waves wrapping around me, painting my skin with sand until they almost pull me under and
I watch the horizon rise as I sink beside the sunset,
smiling with either tears or ocean water because
I haven't felt gravity in a while.
rare wiled lily
Camilla Green Nov 2018
"Hello, hallway, linoleum tile,
I can't really see you but
I hope you're there."

Green spiders crawl through my smoked-up veins,
their spindles weave their webs of red
under eyelids gravitating towards sleep.

Retinal film flashes; each blink is an
unprocessed, scared, broken reel.

"Put your hands," he says, "on mine.
Breathe, look into my eyes."

Shaking fingertips touch his; snowflakes
gently collide with sunny ground.

They were afraid to melt,
even though they might want to.
I wish it had been 33°.
Camilla Green Sep 2018
I could never solely blame my God, he has been here for a while.
He's lost some hairs, chipped some teeth, it's understandable.
The cataracts are setting in, his hair grayed alongside the Bible,
He's a busy man, he's made mistakes,
and I am no stranger to his work.
Camilla Green Apr 2018
The skin beneath my eyes
is getting quite thin again
Spiders thread their webs of red
under eyelids gravitating towards sleep.
Camilla Green Mar 2018
After years on this earth, I have weathered and grown.
As a child, I did things, I had joy, love, and goals.
In early summers, my life was a canvas for scar tissue:
hot pebbles burned soft skin into calloused glory,
the sun beat down and leathered my skin,
chlorine and dirt turned my young hair to gray.

When I was young, I etched tunnels in my bones,
with crayon and marker, I forged deep ivory valleys.
Some see this as cruelty, a sad deterioration,
but this atrophy is experience, the catalyst of life!

Years later, I sit here next to a painted sunrise.
With jell-o, gray matter rots on my styrofoam tray.
I wish for the summer, hot pebbles, and crayons,
for the laughter of youth and its calloused adventures.

But I've retired, so I sit idly in this plastic wheeled chair,
watching monitors beeping with ebbing heart lines,
grieving for my gray hair as it turns back to brown,
mourning, as my unused bones fill with marrow to the brim,
watching, heartbroken, old age clutching my hand,
as my wrinkled skin smooths away.
Camilla Green Mar 2018
To Love! I owe my life to Thee!
To Your light that evermore shines.
You teach Truth, that Objectivity
is a lie of human design;
that Goodness lies in each person,
next to Fear, Hate, and Desire;
that Reason is but a figment
of a coward's denying mind,
that even with the slightest Touch,
like the flick of a flake of snow
against a ***** paned window,
the hardest hearts will melt, they will;
Just watch their fingertips unfurl!
Misguided saps can drip love, too!
But alas, they are trapped by Fear.
Thus they bury their heads in Logic
and ignore their very core.

So I call on Love's disciples!
Extend your hand, your warmth, your care,
Come, now, help guide these stubborn souls.
For as they say, "the truth will out!"
So go on and please, teach the world!
Share Love's wise truths about humans
And their loving and subjective nature.
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