I see myself as rain

awakened
in the soil.

A rebirth,

a mind alive,

a mad, feverish heart.

Words come to me at twilight: I have bouts of thoughts where I imagine letting others in my cold, little room: to view the black paint splattered on the walls, the cracks on the floor, the trails that lead to raw, unfinished dreams. Other days - and more frequently - I’m like a board made of great, exemplary wood. I resist the outside. I do not know what I want, only what I need. And I need silence, forests of solitude, and souls that have substance and depth. Rare things. And to watch the birds that know of nests, at every sunset, so that maybe some remainder of feathers can find their way back to me.

My curse is

I cannot hide my eyes
from the fire in your flesh.
I wander into dreams
where shadows are your body
wind, your silhouette
my breath, your fractures.
This house tastes of old bouquets
burnt letters, tired words (gnawing),

an endless ocean,

repeating
I, too, have cracks -- 
cold and deep.

This is how most of us live
pale and translucent
secrets kept in graves
wolves tending at old wounds
ghosts among the ashes.

Today’s morning:

I awoke to find that the trees
behind my house
with their shades of auburn and pale orange,
in some hazy fog, 

had become one glorious mountain.

The pines bursted into arms 
as they slept.

I sense, in moments like these
I am made from the Earth -- 
entrails of dirt,
uprooted, centered,

a mirror of soft, strong, delicate things.