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
the 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.