Beach Rain

It had decided, quite suddenly, to rain.  There was nothing to do but wrap my towel around me and nestle into the sand.  The rain felt comforting.  I pulled the towel tight to my body and laid on my side curled up like a fetus.  I wanted to be born again so maybe I could sleep again.  Sleep soundly like I haven't in too long.  I didn’t want to open my eyes, though I could feel you looking at me.  What could I do?  There was and is nothing I can do that hasn’t already been done.  We’ve exhausted the resources and we’re still hungry.  I try not to think of you.  Try to find me some other food. 

We had changed as we continue to and in the brief shower I felt the pull toward symbolism, the drops on my face masking tears that had been running continuous for months; I felt a symbolism, a desire to call the rain savior and I felt oddly at peace.  The rain had come to take away all the everything that had been lingering on me from the moment I realized there was no changing some things, that “it is what it is” cannot be riled against no matter how you kick and scream.  At the end of this day and every other you will be you and I will be me. 

We are beautiful people.  In the rain its clear to see that we are so pulsing with life, so craving a union, a special tie that we both deserve.  We hold each other in revelry, in bliss, in love.  We hold each other prisoner.  And we are beautiful people with a magnificent infinity of emotion, love so thick it's palpable, so thick it pushes out the oxygen in the air so that when I get close to you I feel I can't breathe. 

 

The rain taps on my soul softly, "You are forever changed, forever bound to one another.  What that bond be called is really of no consequence", says the rain, "rather it is that you loved and continue to love. Such a bond will never be broken and will never be forgotten."

I smile and hold myself close.  I am thankful for all the love I have in my life.  Drops fall endlessly, whispering “love yourself, love yourself"

breath

You were telling a story about intuition and declarations

I had my head on your chest
listening to the story of your being.
There is a song in your breath
the inhale, deep and long
and tat, tat, tat of syllables
then the inhale, deep and long
tat, tat, tat about the vortex
I am in one
in you
that vortex
that beautiful, complicated vortex
drawn in like a breath, deep and long
and tat, tat, tat along your skin
I love you
is my exhale, I love you.

You were telling a story about intuition and declarations

Your lungs singing a song of life. 
I had my head on your chest
Amazed
something so simple
made me the happiest girl alive.   

in repose

the lions are in repose
in repose
in repose
I wish only my thoughts would lay so sweetly in grassy pastures
my thoughts that torment me
my thoughts that hunger
the lions are in repose
in repose
in repose
but I am awake
without solace
without a soft bed
without.

the lions are sleeping
all small and handsome
in some chamber
called "deep"

a clamor
and the difficulty of
getting out
and getting through
and getting under
under a something
but what?

my spirit's been shot
it is in repose
laying still in muddy water
stirring no silt
calling out for a discussion
of the most painful of
primitive parts
lion's teeth
the higher mind
love
the higher art
love
the higher death?
love?
is it loneliness
the thought of being left behind
by love
what is worse?

partridge

I push on keys
in hopes of releasing
some hard spots in me
grown over and
lined with duff
but still as tough
as a new bone
torn from skin
of an adult
partridge.

who could tell you
what this all means
and why my hard spots
are in heart
instead of knees
grown over
by some sort of need
to protect
or stay protected.

but I've always been
the slim imagination
of a bird
never quite in flight
but dreaming
of a tall tree to squat in
for life.

a partridge in a bush
without a branch to leap from
without nest to nestle
without a song to sing.
just hard spots
like calcium deposits
in all the wrong banks
along all the wrong banks
of rivers that
cannot and will not yield
for a partridge.
a partridge that wanted to trade its wings
for a bit bread and a loving coo
a loving coo
three notes long
whispered for eternity.

but a bird is a bird is a bird
and so it must continue
onward, if not upward
in search of what
it does not know
but something
inside that makes a partridge
move, move, move
ever toward a new roost
a better roost
above ground
beside a river
but not so near that it'll get swept up
above ground
in a tree
in some distant place
in some foreign world too new
for a partridge to even dream.

she follows the sun.