To the Trees I Now Cling Gravity still exists, as do I, and we carry on. In tandem, entangled. Downward, centered, onward we go. In its constant nature, it allows me a moment's rest with Mother Earth. My spine sinks into a sea of grass, and I am settled. Embodied. Weighed down and drawn deep into the earth's core. I feel safe, and planted, like the mother maple that so kindly breaks up the sky above me. So badly do I want to be rooted along with her. Here to stay. Gravity, le

A soft glow illuminates the corner of my bedroom from that off-kilter, miss-matching lamp. Remember the encounter with Nancy the duck? Yeah, that stupid lamp. It just sits there, not doing much at all. And it’s all crooked and far too large to grace the nightside stand. In fact, the word grace should never be uttered in the same breath as this lamp. I can’t tell if I love it for its awkward nature, or hate it deeply for existing – there is no in-between. My spine creaks, my k

Gravity scares me. The way it exists with such confidence. It is. And it knows what it is. The way it pushes and pulls at my entire...

A new dawn stripes life across my skin. And with it rains dust, adding a layer of time through the breaking of drawn blinds. A new dawn,...

9:09. And I am suddenly taken back sixteen years to stained-white shutters, and a one-and-half story the sky is painted after. Like...

There is a lot of weight behind the word Fine. Maybe it is laced closely with that of Pride. I can do it my own. Do not suggest, or hint,...

There’s something comforting in the sound slippers make when graced upon the foot of the beholder. Worn soles kiss at wooden floors – a...

Time has been my enemy for as long as I can remember. Frustrated, I am bound by it, even as I form words and have breath to write this very thought down. I am bound. I cannot shake it. It cannot be solved. My brow sinks, my wrinkles deepen, my fingers curl, and I cannot change the very rhythm that gives breath to human existence...

Ants. On your boots, and by your soup, and on your blue-lit screen. Pesky things. They have so many legs, and they’re freakishly strong....

It’s twelve past three in the morning, and I’ve just woken with a start. Somehow, I don’t feel the deep and dying loneliness often...

Aged with dust, I tear – lines of wear, cross-hatched here, tethered, held taut there. I am fragile. Threaded by time, I give – and tossed, draped over childhood twine, the sun sees through me wholly and completely: translucence. A whisper. Seams held together in yesterday’s color – fleeting afterthought. I am but used, black and blue and washed. Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat. Ripped, worn, pilled, pulled, knotted, forgotten – pushed into the back of the closet, I am nothing