Anemone,
Aubrieta
& Aster.
A life so precious,
A life so spacious.

Cosmos,
Cyclamen
& Crocus.
Call me when your ready,
Call me when it gets messy.

Ground Ivy,
Greater plantain
& Garlic Mustard.
Give me some love,
Give me everything above.

Our garden has turned
to awful melodies
of screams and sounds
that I once heard
as rhymes and
beautiful notes.

I never knew,
something so negative
could feel so positive.

i wake in the morning
with an ache from dreaming of you
looking at me the way you used to
holding me the way you did
making me feel like no one else could
i should just get high so i dont have to feel this

Float seeds in the wind strewn about haphazardly;
indifferent winds ask not direction to course

Change asks not permission to become ―
like a blind-folded pilot looking for a place to land

At least dandelion wishes shoulder the weight of hope
and it makes no difference to the wind whose dream
it holds or seed it bears to  randomly cast away

The color of a mustard seed of faith
that moves mountains remains unknown ―
Freedom is as weightless as a hole in empty pocket
with nothing left to lose

Who decides who's a **** and what's a flower;
such definitive power beholds responsibility—
the most visible kind of strength,
that, used to oppress others,
is itself born of weakness.

On this island earth, in an ocean of emptiness,
a grain of sand and seaweed are washed ashore,
alone together, by the strength of a tuning tide

Float seeds in the wind strewn about haphazardly;
spindrift flying on the wing of tide-change
as indifferent gales ask not direction to scatter

Terrestrial seeds lay unheeded hole up in impalpable silence,
embryos of yesterday dwelling in infrequent sighs
that enter lightly those unreckoned songs
the breathings of the heart fail to sing


              words in the wind

The temperature in the room is high
Thick, sweaty bodies grind to the rhythm
As music swells like smoke coming
From the joints being passed around
Laughter fills the air as full as the cups
That clutter her bedroom, like the friends
On her bed, sharing the bench in front of the keyboard,
Making out in her closet, and behind her *****
Shower curtain. She’s faded, just like the rest of them,
But through the clouds of smoke and conversation,
The date circled in black on her calendar
Reminds her of the day her mother fell to her knees
In the middle of the grocery store screaming,
Like the ****** girl who hears a funny joke
In the background, after getting a phone call
That would rewrite the date, no longer a stoner’s holiday,
But the same day as seven years before, when her mother,
Once in the car, continued hyperventilating, no passerby
Stopping to help, or to ask the twelve-year-old girl
What was wrong, like her friends who try to do so
Now as she stands and picks a picture off the shelf
Her aunt in it, alive, and kissing her cheek. /Are you okay?/
A hand comforts her shoulder. /I think I’ll smoke a little more./
She loses the staring contest and hands the picture back to the shelf.

-E (c) 2018