BIGGER SKY

Urban climbing up
concrete hills, what
season is it anyway?

Four straight days
of light-flooded windows
spark new leaves
on the basil plant.

I said it many times:
I need a bigger sky,
larger moon-stage,
vast and brooding.

On that shallow shore
just north of here: why
are the boats left
floating free all night?

What small city sparkles
to the east? Why can’t
I keep the ocean’s west
location ever straight?

And can I keep this
golden fondness with
me past autumn?

AN AFTERTHOUGHT

With freckled arms
I search the floor for
affirmation, posing this way
and that.

In the quiet stillness of
Sunday morning yoga,
feelings pour from my
unquiet mind.

Your biggest fear
is you, it says.

A madness I’ve understood
for un-still-able moments,
there and gone.

That you won’t be
who you want you
to be, it says.

That acceptance will
flee or be forgotten,
realized as an
afterthought.

light light light

Juanita Beach, Kirkland | WA

CATCHES ME OFF GUARD

The freeing feeling
that comes with
driving fast is a
new sensation

buried, had at
one time been
felt abundantly.

Now catches me
off guard — willing,
blissful, forgetful,
embracing the
acceleration.

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Schuylkill River Trail, Philadelphia

BEING ALIVE IS THE MEANING

We watched the needle fall,
miles correlating with the
liquid in our tank.
We moved ourselves through
so many state lines,
we forgot time.

Highways laced through
impeccable fields, indigo
ponds nested within tall grass.
We counted license plates,
saying “You’re far from home!”

Our bodies didn’t ask for much,
we ate Airheads and Starbursts,
skipping lunch.

We learned that water is essential.
Water is where the people are –
Madison, Minneapolis or Montana.

Lake-life is alive even in land-locked
states.

Seven days of sight-seeing.
They told me the middle would be boring.
I swear I loved it all.

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Driving through beautiful Montana

AN EDUCATION

(I wrote this poem about two years ago, when I was unemployed after college. Now I’m about to be voluntarily unemployed. How much life can change in so little time. I am learning now what is essential to my happiness, my wholeness. And it absolutely means simplicity.)

Our fruit baskets are not empty.
My shelf is filled (so is hers).
Our tiny fridge is clumsy with
tissue-thin bags of produce.

After breakfast, I’ll cover my
body in lavender suds.
And comb my thick, soft hair.

Some things can’t be measured.
I’m like a housewife without a
husband, when I only want
to be fitted for an office chair.

Today, I’ll hang the lace curtains,
write four cover letters,
make three square meals,
sweep the hall,
brush the rectangular edge of my
nightstand with mustard paint.

No paycheck, but my diploma is
in the mail. I’m good for it.