The Bully at the Library

The Bully at the Library

The bully at the library feels itchy, twitchy like
one-too-many sweaters. Like the old man leans in sudden to
pop you one. Like the stump-tailed cat next door.

He carves his misery into a spine of Shakespeare. His thick
hands among the stacks are clumsy birds. Knuckled dumb by
narrowed choice and chance, he settles into story.

For a moment, his fury is lost amid beckoning worlds.

Valentine with Whales

Valentine with Whales

I mean to write what is true, what came, what became without
effort of naming; what teases just beyond the reach of
words, slips out of frame, refuses to be pinned to the page.

I aim to list, to count, account each reason, spin of season,
to order every moment's joyous mess. Knowing if it could
be captured, framed, contained, it would be less.

I offer instead what we felt among circling whales.

Unsmitten

Unsmitten

Regrets never happen on their own. They do not arrive
unbidden, unbound. They are whiskered into being by a wish, a kiss,
a fist. They are sought, maneuvered, wrought--not found.

When morning comes, whatever its guise, awaken--take it
in and walk away--a bit bitten, but more wise. Press hard into
whatever needs revision. Be unheld, unleashed--not undone.

Be unsmitten.

Beckon the Broken

Beckon the Broken

It's easy to look back and see the moment clear: Your schoolyard
uncertainty, clumsy mouth and hands, the depth of drowning in your
eyes I missed (dismissed?), mislabeled as lovable, mendable, lost.

Any wild thing would by instinct have abandoned, shunned or
devoured you. Like that. Like nothing. Not for nothing. But not this
cracked-open, seeking girl. Never we humans with our stupid smarts.

We beckon the broken--thinking we can out think our guts.

Avoiding the Mirror

Avoiding the Mirror

For weeks you've somehow managed it, no small miracle
of maneuvering in a culture fixed on form, obsessed by polish,
fixated on each furrowed mark of wit and wonder and weather.

Now spring and sun collude each time you pass a pane. You're
drawn like string, like bees, like being called--to face your face. To
see if you're still there. A sort-of-you confronts you in the glare.

Accept the dare.

Breaking

Breaking

We forget our first relationships to limbs: Our own and those
of the broad-armed trees we climb. Our earliest climbing is just to
learn we can; and then, to reach for fruit, for freedom--to ascend.

Our earliest running is just to learn we can; soon comes flat-out
flying--the urgency, the need that springs from being newly, nearly
free. We forget our first relationships to limbs.

Our earliest falling is just to learn we can.

Be Like Trees

Be Like Trees

Sprout stubborn roots insistent on their purchase. Be
grateful, be hungry (fight!) for light and heat and rain. Expand
beyond the earth you have been ceded.

Experience each season in its turn. Grow
strong, then open: to flower, to shelter, to shade. Reach
for what may only be discovered in the reaching.

Where there is no path, invent one--be like trees.