Some Questions I Have What do my plants think of me? We want you here– but not there! And please, don’t climb up that fence. Oh, how they must be so confused! What does a worm look like under the soil? It is never seen there. Only lifted from its moist womb, laid out in daylight, squirming with impressive speed beneath a sun it has no interest in.   I imagine it moves with ease in the dark underneath. The compost pile often receives the usual suspects. Papaya seeds, coffee gr

trees curled and blackened, scarred not only by the natural environment in which they grew, but their corpses defamed  by the very forces that took their lives flame hoof hand desecration of their corpses. yet not so far above lives  wild green serene a bright shadow a reminder of what used to be. take a walk among it and realize just how much we have lost. lose yourself in the vines, twisting and curling, wild and mangled, a thousand  shades of green. reaching out fingers of

I remind you of a time,  running through the hills and dips  of the park—past. The grass still wet, the earth soft  enough  to forgive your steps. Hesitating over the bridge, as I once did, fingers grazing over the wooden railing. Knowing once you cross it  something will already be different.  Sitting in the sun that feeling arises again,  settling into every vessel of your body. Every muscle tightening and loosening all at once, almost  embracing the encapsulation  of how y

Maybe I should stop kneading bread I cannot eat, pressing my hands into the dough folding into its weight it can’t hold. some loaves burn on the edges, the crumbs stick to my hand, baking, a science I simply just don’t understand. I wait for it to rise, patiently watching, but it never stays. some loaves burn completely, blackened bitterness surround the crisp middle, the edges stick to the pan forever. Others collapse under their own weight, soft centers folding in. one loaf

I thought hydrangeas were meant to bloom in October, but they’re no longer growing. The flowers by your empty room wilted, their stems bowing as if mourning with me - or maybe it’s me mourning them, mourning you. I remember when you arranged them, humming a tune I can’t remember the name of, but can still feel deep in my chest: a melody that lingered even after the final petals fell, a love that remains, even when you can’t hold someone’s hand anymore. The hydrangeas outside

Sometimes the hill is so steep that you can't lower your feet against gravity slowly enough to cool down the pace. Each step gets faster, your heels pressing harder into the earth, your backpack pushing down on you, making any attempt to slow yourself futile. Muscles resign, and then you’re running. When you were young, were you ever so excited when a loved one arrived that you dropped the kendama and were out the front door before it stopped bouncing catawampus on the floor?

Pomegranate in hand. Heavy, firm.  I cut the protruding tip From the top of this round fruit. Unfolded, I am amazed by the complex...

There is something that passes by,  with my every move.--Oh look! Is that a caterpillar prancing in my shoe? I watch as it trails higher,...

a bird sits upon the silence of dawn, Its colorful wings, like a brushstroke on the sky's pale canvas. across the stream, i bend down to...