summer solstice

There is a place I like to call Arcadia. It's a place where you fill in the blanks of real life happenings. Most days can fold into each other like the same old dusty uniform. But when you take the heart of it, like that 4 pm drag, your feelings and thoughts that arise...they are always different, just like the sky. You create stories out of the little things that happened that were different, that's Arcadia. A place I love to dwell.

This summer so far:

I don't know if my caterpillar is dead, or if it's molting right now. Much like my life and the things I care for so deeply that the ache from my heart pulses in my arms and legs. Like I got stepped on and squashed and can neither fly nor die. I feel it everywhere. Super hoping it's just a of growing wings, and not the death of something that never even got to bloom.

Speaking of growing things, there's a baby girl kicking and tumbling inside my body. A manifestation of the love that has gone backstage. For a costume change, and not the curtain close, we hope.

Her arrival draws nearer, as well as the mysteries of her;

I envy the young, spirited school girl with two church benches full of friends. Her popularity comes to a rolling boil at the age of 13, and when she flips her hair back and forth to share a joke or a secret, she forgets to worry. She doesn't wonder if she is safe, or remember that she will grow old. She doesn't feel the tightness of hunger or the threat of opportunity lost. She just laughs, and her laughter ascends into school boys' ears, and they love her for just that. Her dreams don't feel wilted or far far away. They are like fresh herbs kept alive in the dirt, clipped off in small bundles in the morning, consumed and adored by dinnertime. But by bed time, and this is the thing, she is restless and too young. Her mind starts to swirl. That's when she envies me, and she's too naive to understand what for.

I have an orange beetle, and it's running for it's life. Across state lines and family ties. I wish I could take it all the way to Amsterdam, but there's the Atlantic, and bills to pay. So we end up racing around our hometown like a connect-the-dot poster night after night...broken windshield, brakes are giving out. But what gives. If the brakes do....good. We'll never have to stop. And face ourselves. Our scrapes and dents and how low we always are on fuel.

The longest day of the year. The most amount of daylight.

I sat on the hill behind the garages and watched the carnival, thinking maybe you'd show up. Maybe we'd watch the spinning lights together, and not talk, ever. Until we could say to each other... "good morning". Because evening was never on our side. Thank heavens it will be a short night. You didn't show but I still heard the music. I still saw the lights. Which means you were with me all along. Maybe next time you'll know where to find me. Maybe I won't be running for my life. Maybe I'll be still as the chrysalis. Hard but temporary. Maybe I'll be freshly scented like the basil at the kitchen sink, that lays in wait to have a reason to cook a spectacular meal. As if you ever needed a reason to do that. But it just hurts doing it alone.

a gatherer's tale:

you could never wander too far

past the hedge

or back again

to find meaning in everything

on the forest floor

and more

a twig snaps behind your back

is it a warning;

that you are prey

or a reminder;

that you are protected

does the wind obey you

or does it sway you

does it take you against your will

or carry you home

does it shape you

does it whither you away

beneath your feet there is kindling

and your quiet breath

can save a tiny flame

that may be going out

without your sweet sigh

the place to be

is wherever you are

whatever you need to start a fire

is within the most curious heart

that sits still to witness one leaf fall

and wonder about it

for quite a while

to forget completely

that you're lost in the trees

oh to think

that anywhere else

is where you should be

there are no answers

save the clouds in the sky

that are changing, and changing and changing

the time will come

when the sun needs a nose to kiss

or a shoulder to rest on

let it be you