i miss the feeling of shaking
from something other than
anger, other than fear. i go
to my window and look for the
little flowers of hope. they are
every where; fragments amid
very long sentences: the swallow
tail, the barn swallow, the migrating
monarch. your energy goes where it’s
needed; there, it meets the energy it needs.
fire is friction.
imagine these are real:
a tiny wild child on your knee,
a tired dictator on the other, the
view of your own face from the
inside; they are all in the arena
with you: daring greatly.
we are always building: bridges,
portals, spirals, spaceships—
without knowing. all the
water droplets are being
summoned into one
stream, here at the
intersection of all things.