I am driving.
Driving and listening to a song
About a flower that wished it was a tree,
And a raccoon climbs on my shoulder.
To my left there is a woman
Pulled to the side of the road.
Her face is flushed red
As she wipes off a white wooden cross
With a white wash rag,
And changes the flowers.
And I’m driving,
The raccoon is chewing on my hair,
And I’m wondering
How I’m going to find her a place
That she’ll be okay.
So I say it out loud.
“How will I find her a home?”
The song plays in the background
And I wonder who I even mean.
I think about the sad boy
From the bus stop a few days ago.

We’re all exposed beating hearts
On this beating heart we call home.
Our needs and motivations,
Radiate with every beat.
Whether we are looking or not.
Whether we help or not.
And we put up these walls
In our lives or in our minds.
But the separation we create
Is just an idea that gives
Power to entitlement and loneliness.
Despite what we tell ourselves,
We are not a single flower
Growing in a raised bed among others.
But rather a petal on a morning glory
That grows in a tangle of squash
And Virginia creeper.
Always growing, and intertwining.
Side by side.
On top and below.
From humans to nature,
From humans to humans
There are no distinctions
That are not manmade.
The lady by the road,
The raccoon, and me
Are all one singular life.
And not only in this
Suspended moment.