if i could find words not in vain to describe her,
verses of her Virtuousness, i would sing
her humble approval in glances so fleeting
her song like a robin’s, beckoning the spring
our friendship, a gentle yet short affair
she, the girl with the golden hair

oh, how i would press softest lips to her own
should she give me a whisper, an answer, a plea,
and yet, from her halo of Heavenly judgement
not once has she cast a soft look towards me
a heart that is wounded beyond repair
she, the girl with the golden hair

through Holiest laughter, i smooth back her tresses
her eyes crinkle up in a bittersweet smile
i murmur, i love you, she tells me, i’m sorry.
we sit in the frost of december a while
warm breath on cold cheeks, puffs of hot air
from she, the girl with the golden hair

winter is breaking, and spring is long gone,
as is her gossamer, dissolute song
our friendship, a tender yet brief affair
me and the girl with the golden hair.

Time slipped away in the spring, in the muddy puddles and the rain, in the sweet-smelling flowers and the rain.
It rubbed circles into the small of my back,
whispered bittersweet apologies and tacked a sticky note to my corkboard.
“Remember to call.”
I forgot.

And I sit under the blooming tree
my bare feet soft against the grass

Time left me in the summer, in the sunny skies and the rain, in the sweltering heat and the rain.
It ran somewhere unknown, far, far, far away,
while I treaded chlorinated water and prayed that the fall would come sooner.
“You can call whenever.”
I didn’t.

And I sit beside the verdant tree
my bare feet ******* the pavement

Time was gone in the fall, in the whispered breeze and the rain, in the crinkling leaves and the rain.
But I had company in a glowing screen,
And as days turned to weeks turned to months I forgot about time altogether.
“Someone is calling.”
I hung up.

And I sit far from the dying tree
my bare feet resting on the couch

Time slept in the winter, in the miserable cold and the rain, in the blustery wind and the rain.
Numbers and names disavowed,
As “today” and “tomorrow” become “now” and “later”
“What is the word called?”
I don’t know.

And I cannot see the empty tree
my bare feet asleep on the carpet

Time has returned in the spring.
It looks me in the eyes,
profuse apologies pouring out from its lips.
“But you didn’t call.”
I blink. Didn’t I?

my mother likes to tell me i am now a part of history
but if people only remember the tragedies,
i don’t want to be.

art is around me
always.
like the wind in my hair or the grass on my feet.
perpetual.
art doesn’t come and go
even as humanity
wavers.
in fact, when humanity is unsure,
art flourishes.

i have created my fair share of art.
after all,
i am an artist
...
at least, that is what i call myself
and that means many things.

i like to draw, and drawings cover my walls from
top to bottom.
therefore i am an artist.

i like to write, and words flow through me
like water through a stream.
therefore i am an artist.

i like to sing, and lyrics whisper out of my mouth
when no one is listening.
therefore i am an artist.

i like to take pictures, and images
of flowers and rivers and streams stream through my mind.
therefore i am an artist.

i have created my fair share of art.
after all, we are in quarantine.
meaning we are at home.
meaning we have “nothing” to do.
(wrong)

i like to draw
i like to write
i like to sing
i like to take pictures
therefore i am an artist
and i have work to do

art is when
you
take something empty and give it life.
art is the stroke of a paintbrush
and the scribble of a pen,
the sweetness of a melody,
and the snap of a clapperboard,
but art is also the way the grass sways in the wind
and the patterns the clouds form in the sky
and the rain’s decisiveness as to whether it will be
a delicate murmur or
a passionate roar.

art is when the harshest angles
and softest curves,
the highest of highs
and lowest of lows,
the brightest days
and darkest nights,
come together into something
that didn’t exist in a time before
you
made it
art is
unique and
bold and
brave and
you.
everything
about the art you create is
you. yourself. you
are your art. no one else could have made that but
you.
art is about how nothing in the known universe could have made what you just did
and how you just did
and why you just did
but you did.
and it’s beautiful.

I.

i’m alone. soon dead.

i’m going to die alone.

alone in my house.

II.

so open your phone,

and do not look at the news,

and pretend it’s fine.

III.

wish i’d remembered

to say hi to them before

the world fell apart.

IV.

the world fell apart.

even if this sickness ends,

the glass is shattered.

V.

you can’t fix the glass

after it has been broken.

we can’t fix the world.

VI.

week four of it all.

i’m going to die alone.

alone in my house.

in these trying times,

our houses locked and shuttered,

fear is the king.