It’s easy to believe that loss is what makes us who we are. But when I consider the kindness and generosity people have shared with me, my body feels different. What if I could trace light as the through thread?
What’s sticking with me post-hike is what’s left: the tracks, the station and a few poles presumably for electricity. It has me thinking about how we’re connected to one another and to wilderness and how being connected to one another is its own magnificent — and treacherous — wilderness.
I don’t usually write satirical poems, but VP Pence’s unwillingness to have lunch alone with a woman who is not his wife called for it. It’s hard not to lampoon this administration.
Remember the girl I said I’d found? The poet-warrior? She refused to stick around. Let’s call it “the remains of winter.” Let’s call it “Trump administration.” Let’s call it #$%?!@*!!
Paying attention to all of it reminds me that I am of the world. It’s easy for me to live in my head. And while I enjoy retreating there — and need to sometimes because the world can feel too crowded — ultimately it untethers me in a bad way. I need to be in my body.
Here / trying to enact what they mean when they say Let’s cross over. / If I write about the butterfly you’ll think I want to be one But who are you
Who am I in all this / to feel love so abundant? This morning, a tree / on my lawn catches the sun. It sits in bare branches / like a bright ball of yarn I want to keep in a basket / even though I can make nothing of it.