it can be seen in
every morning's sunrise and
sunset every night

it can be seen in
water's round path
from sea to rain to river

it can be seen in
coral limestone peaks
eroding into valleys

it can be seen in
spring's first flush of growth and
decaying piles of leaves

it can be seen in
monarch chrysalis deathmasks
birthing renewed and vibrant life

it is written
between the lines of nature
by the hand of god

understand
because
you see

Does it mean anything
that the trees still had most
of their leaves when she arrived—
we spent the day tangled
watching them fall—
I introduced her to the larks, the wren,
the ever-busy squirrels.

And does it mean anything
that the next morning nearly
all the leaves were gone,
that I and the squirrels both
took a bit longer to wake,
to leave the warmth of our beds.

I wonder what it was that they were missing.

Did someone crank up the gravity?
It's getting harder to smile...
Like my lips are being held down by weights.
Feeling as though I am being pressed into the Earth.
Crushed by this neverending game over...
It's becoming harder to smile.

Let alone, breathe.

How many poems go unwritten
And where do they go?
Are they buried somewhere in carbon:
Caught between the synapses?
Do the words merely come to surface
In the nets of another vessel?
Or do they wilt and expire?
Was there a betrayal when they came and then left?
Does someone collect the poems that go unwritten?

The worst part is the lack
Of color
Vibrance…
And no amount of Giant Steps
Could avoid the emptiness.

I heard about a torture technique
Where the prisoner is placed in an
Empty white room
With only white light to see
And white rice to eat.
I think the alienation I feel
Is like a form of that.
Lifelike solitary confinement.