My City: A Haiku

Standing on the street

in my old, faded blue jeans,

twisting the white threads;

 

Perched at the corner,

in the power of denim,

reclaiming my voice.

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we climb the continual

we are each born into this world with a dream.

when we first arrive, we know it to our core.

 

as time—and we—unfold, we begin to forget;

it burrows back down into our recesses.

 

sometimes small glimpses will come to the

surface, if we allow space: a painted picture, a

 

sculpted pot, a sleeping story. unmet dreams

follow us en masse down dark side streets,

 

find us in all-night conversations,

meet us under a portal of stars.

 

we climb the continual spiral—

toward voice, birth, source, love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

favorite part of speech

i walk beside the river in the snow.

my cat curls beside me on the couch.

 

we are in this world to rub up

against other things and beings.

 

we define ourselves

in relation to others.

 

try to describe who

or where you are

 

without prepositions:

the words of relation-

 

ships. even an

island is in the sea,

 

far from land and

longing for habitation.

 

jump into the water

and see where it takes

 

you. cast off your

past, the weight of

 

mistakes, the heavy

anchor of indecision.

 

it is time to sail, to

take flight, to feel the

 

wind in your wings:

in, on, through, between.

 

 

 

we are december

while we were away,

winter happened.

 

i came home to fresh

frost on the grass.

 

we share this set of days,

this slow creep toward

 

the center of the snow

globe maze. at any moment,

 

a child’s hand can scoop

up the glass and shake us into

 

oblivion. her delight is

our delay. in the falling

 

flurries, i find you: wrapped

in your mother’s red scarf—

 

holding the hand of time.

we are the child, the snow,

 

the mother, the scarf;

we are december.