about the houseplants

At least, when they whither,

There are crumpled leaves to pick off.

I only notice them when there is nothing else to do.

My nurturing is an after thought, almost a mistake.

Others are, I imagine, cooing gentle angels of growth.

Their fingertips are like root-endings.

What is it, that I can cull, instead of encourage?

The dry, crinkled leaves remind me of crepe,

Or my winter-lips.

I understand the pulling off, the picking, the paring down.

I can feel the rough paper veins shatter

In my own dry palms.

New growth, that is a mystery, and I think

Bother, I shall probably drown you too.

I will worry you to browning.

At least, then, I’ll heed the call.

There must be undertakers, who in

brown and broken leaves

find purpose.

things that i do*

I pay my taxes, I meet Reindeer.

I stroll through the garden of (literally) Eden and turn to gold under an Aspen.

I drink too much wine.

I write a poem to the sunrise, to the hurricane, to the chickadee whose fluff is tousled, who must have met the blackberry.

I grind my teeth, the hangnail is infected again, I stub my toe. I see black ink dripping between my fingers, I spin the red base wheel of spirit.

I plant metaphorical seeds, I ignore the compost and toss the banana peel.

I smudge the corners and forget myself.

I paint a goldfinch, neglect the voicemail, and fall asleep early.

I meet my God in the grout.

*sometime in 2013