Thursday, April 22, 2021


Quiet, no sound save for paper run along by this birthday gift. “Let’s stay here,” says my therapist and so, I make a pact to again come back empty handed, for what is asked for is an emptying of pockets, of a closet in someone else’s room named mine in the three tree home.

How to learn to follow a quiet shadow the thing in there that makes a place of a little field above the sea.

Walk a little closer, say, “No more,” then walk slowly back again.

When I was afraid, language was not there for me. There are edges that need tending to, missed calls and summertime peeking out somewhere. There isn’t any future, I have to remind myself, no next year, save for the promise of more wind, water lifting itself over and over again, pen and ink and word, pant pockets lined with secrets, notebooks filled with what can’t be held.

Wait—there is still something left to be said.

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