In Algonquin, before the dawn
before they’re clouds, the fog rises
tucked under the echoing loons
above the fat smell of wet soil
before the day becomes day
before you are a person
and the light of day breaks
the green sky casts a hue
incubating the lake
until life becomes life
until you become human

In the hollow space inside the soul
It is the universe and the atom.
In a space of good fortune and rebirth, so close to death—
It is present moment and past; divine and crippling; boundless and mortal
Golden with ecstasy and layered in the decay of sorrow  
For a brief moment we are able to see it.
Silently we stare at everything that is
Nostalgia already dripping from every moment
pooling at our feet in the regret of lost time.

In an attempt to walk the path I had
Beaten bone dry with the
Soles of the sneakers I wore for years 
And years
I was stopped by
Overgrowth and foliage

It used to be mine
But time had claimed it for herself
In an attempt to put me in my place
Daring me to not relish in what
Used to make me who I am

In fighting my way through
The bushes and leaves, I was
Forced to surrender to the
Simple fact:
I have changed.

I stopped living on that
Dirt ground
And sitting on those four rocks
That divided your house and mine
To catch my breath
And decide my next move

The downcast shadows of the trees
Recanted to me the stories of
My former jubilation
And versed me in the
Games I had missed

I traced the stars with my cigarette
To find the meaning they'd hid from me
Since birth dropped me on this rock
To learn all they had to teach

I thought I knew when I
Jumped the puddles in the road
And the cracks in the sidewalk
To avoid broken
 backs and
Accidental swims

Exhaustion on my heels
I began my ascent to the
Canopy, holding the answer to my
Long-drawn inquisition.
Discovery drove me to this new creed:
I am stronger than my scars
Give me credit for.

I understood my dryness in a 
Fit of introspection and
Cold sweats and
Warm shivers,
My sobriety, my closest familiar

So I buttoned down the boxes that
Help me get to sleep
And said a few words about the friend
I used to keep at the
Edge of those woods
Back when growing up seemed easy
And nothing seemed too hard

The sun beating down on my face,
The gentle, warm breeze.
The smell of green plant life,
the stench of fresh mulch.
The cooling drizzle of summer rain,
the essence of wet concrete.

This is what I missed.

Bristling branches brush the brazen boldness of summer kissed flesh
Scratching their stories across warm leather and black skin
Kissing the sun with its brilliant caricature smiling from the canvas of hair, freckled flesh and happiness
The winding wind pulling in the playful tangle of curled hair
Where cheeks blushed under exertion
Huffing breath like a prayer
The call too great
Like a sudden pain in the soul
The sound the rush the feeling of touching something that was real
Stays real even after the moment is gone
Tickling hairs of grass meet curious hands walking the hurried gate down into the rocky trail bed
Feet teetering on unstable rock-stone-steps
Tapping out the excited rhythm of her heart
In the meadow on the trail in between the trees
She was truly beautiful
A vision of free.

Here.
Quietly, then all at once
Her voices and touches arise.
Smiling bright as smooth sunshine,
I lift up my nose to the breeze.

Childhood hides among the brambles
Laughter peeks from under each stone
The trail hums with life.
Walking, gliding through the brush
Playing peek-a-boo with the path,
I embrace Her like an old lover and teacher,
For it was here
In the shade of figs and acorns
That I learned I could soar.

Here.
Where beetles mate and ants labor
Where crackle-leaves dissolve and the soil exhales warmth
Where field mice scurry and fledglings learn to fly.

Even on another continent,
Her caress is familiar.
It is the one of thorn bushes and wildflowers and weeds.
It is the stumble-over-stones
And the ear-tickling-buzz of the bees.

Here.
I know I am Home.

When you go camping,
and the world lifts itself from your shoulders
and the problems back home seem silly and irrelevant
human life, and
what you may have been trying to achieve
in your leather black ergonomic chair
and your dark polished wood desk
seems silly and irrelevant
The world is here, in the wood-pecker’s tap-tap-taping in the trees
the checkered calculated lines of the water being pulled to shore by the wind,
viewed from above
like the birds that push themselves into the tide and float
back to shore then push themselves out again.
the world is here, 
forgotten by the city, and the construction worker’s crack-crack-crack of the hammer
the calculated system of traffic guided by flashing lights, turning signs and abrasive horns
from behind the wheel 
where the man sits in a satin black suit and smooth leather car seat
sipping at his morning coffee, purchased for $2.25 and cradled by spring-loaded cupholders,
until he reaches for the silver handle of his glass office door, and stops
looking down at his brown-leather shoes that cut into the rounded bone on the side of his ankle
and decides,
time to go camping

When I was younger
I refused to sleep
with the windows open.

I denied myself
the relief of fresh summer night air,
preferring instead
the stuffy silence
of a closed window.

I refused to allow
the sounds of faraway trains and cars
to permeate my sonic solitude.

The absence of sound and
of movement cloaked my bedroom,
with the blankness of a blizzard
and the density of a rainforest canopy.

I felt safe
in the silence,
content even though,
only sometimes,
I lay awake in the silent warmth
for hours,
in various contortions or
prone on the carpeted floor,
in a desperate plea for
the planets of my mind and body
to align so that I could sleep.

These days,
my window remains open,
environment permitting,
so that the crickets and the sounds of passing cars
sing me to sleep,
a suburban symphony of mundane sounds.

Some nights, a wind
creeps in and I become wistful
as I drift away,
for days that have been,
might be,
and will never come.

I like the smell
of pavement
after rain.

It reminds me of camping trips
from when I
was a kid.

I would lay awake
listening
to the rain hitting the tarpaulin roof.

ping
              (pong)
ping

A symphony of raindrops
sounded like golfballs
to my childish ears.

I imagined a barrel
tipped over
with those dimpled spheres cascading

into the
           air and onto
                           the roof of the camper.

But in the morning
I would step outside and
would only be met with the smell of the rain.

six beads of water
spaced along the shallow fold
of a green grass blade