The clarity of noon-light shows colors without shadow, so when tomorrow’s dark sky comes, we recall the essence of who has not left. The clouds keep holding back their gift, passing without relief. The deficit of roots increased, that may take years to recover. We must recognize extent of effect, if we are to properly treat the wound. I see scars running through the earth, and follow them like a path—/

.

Partly cloudy sky reflects the rhythm of my mind. Pulsing at a steady tempo, a heart sustaining strokes of movement. Everyone is asking for water, and here at the precipice the decisions we must make become clear. A line drawn through a circle, splitting continuity into bend of spiral. We already knew it was coming, and now it is finally the time. I feel the change sift through me, like winds shifting season’s course. I watch as a door opens into another room—/

.

Past the tipping point at which water can revive, we watched the withering of what had been so strong in growth. For every being, the source of weakness is the hub of mutuality (the shadow of an ant crawling along high tree branch.) I find myself shifting form with the wind, the tone of voice, the shape of the mouth. I come to know myself from all these sides, and how each may find the water—/

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Veins of leaf turn yellow, revealing the pathways of delivery. Untended weeds send out their seeds, a silent wish for when we’re gone. Milkweeds dry to crisp before they can make pods, standing corpses of forgotten memory. The asters form buds ready for opening, late bloomers patient in entrance. Sunflowers splay out, following the waning light of evening. A full moon hangs low, candle-warm in the soft pink sky—/

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The giant sunflower, head too heavy to hold high, bobs low for the bees, who swoop under its shelter. The milkweed pod cracks open early in the dryness, but the seeds are ready, scattering themselves into edges and corners. The marigolds, bright and open, seem to promise they could live forever, and I believe it. The mint and anise hyssop, left untended by my human hand, spread wild and free, releasing aromatic essence to be caught on wind by the breathless—/

.

Finally in the early before morning, when the mind becomes restless for day, I could hear rain falling softly on ground and leaves thirsty for drink. Later, the dark clouds lingered, and a single cricket sang stridently, hiding in the moist grass. Now received, the full moon shows its first slim shadow, and we retreat to watch things slow. I know it will not be the same after this, and listen until the cricket fades—//

— m.a.r.

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Descent of overcast sky, giving up slow its contents. Ground moistened from the surface, but not quenched from the depths. Still, there is enough for the flowers to be tall and open, goldenrod and joe-pye weed, blooms of marsh and field. These are colors meant to be seen by my eyes, easy under cloud. Their shades cast waves inside me, a language I can feel without words—/

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We walked between two stands of arched sunflower, who ushered us through their ring of gold. On the other side, I saw how things could be different and feel more alive. When you are presented an offering for something you want, how will you know if it’s time? I could keep going like this, but something in me would keep dying. I am a houseplant who has outgrown its pot, my roots are yearning to spread—/

.

We’ve already reached the end / and this is the other side

Life keeps on its turning / through highs and lows of tide

First the leaves wilt in the sun / and then the petals droop

Seeking a depleted source / we now travel far to acquire

The days will turn into decades / but I want to make this last

Not another starting over / but a slowing of these seasons fast—/

.

Finally my body gave way to the heavy tide of sleep, and in the night a soft rain fell in the middle of my stranger dreams. In the morning, I could tell, the ground stained a little darker, and the stratus clouds who lingered above let my waking eyes rest. Now that an ease has spread through my limbs, it’s so clear how everything was harder. Please, let it stay like this, where I can renew enough to feel my world gladly—/

.

Monarch butterflies dance in the sun, deep drive hidden in light grace. Each drink of sweetness a lifeline for the future. Carbon re-used and transformed into forms made possible by warmth and season, and divine instruction too small for the eye. Some part of us remembers these forms, and grows into them again and again, this miracle of resurgence—/

.

One bird flying over the sea / wings outstretched on current’s breeze

Attuning to magnetic north / following the sun’s south force

All we need is air and light / to make everything alright

Riding on the earth’s rotation / angle of the shadow’s station

We are beings of water and time / made of passage layering inside

What you can’t see on the surface / will appear when you ask its purpose

This is not for the faint of heart / the deeper you go, the more the loss

If I could just make one more wish / please let me remember all this—/

.

Now the time is past due, and the early tree turns red. Pink clouds overlay the dusk, and my fear rises up like a storm. The sea of crickets tries to hold me, because they know the worst has passed. So I wait with them outside, until each one falls asleep. We were made to put our hearts on the line, and the body shrivels when we keep it closed in. Pain is meant to move like a river fed strong by our underground source—//

— m.a.r.

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Trickle of the stream, tones modulated by curve and stone. Reflection of clear green, tucked inside the gulch. Safety from both sides, we walk from waterfall to source, an underground spring I cannot quite find. Above the ceiling, a hawk cries, but the crickets and bees don’t mind. We snake back, crossing makeshift bridges of branch and rock, pausing at the lookout, the river calm and full—/

.

shoreline shrouded by heavy green / early enough to see the sleepy bees

blooms that only stay for the morning / bright this time not a warning

following the circle of habit / nudging slowly towards something like peace

worlds we choice to leave behind / for a truth we knew we could keep

learning how to drown out the noise / with the constancy of water and wind

an orange glow on the underside / a static to the air we’re living in —

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Glow of dull peach-orange in the cloud-cast dawn of August. Applies ripening on the trees, bees feeding from the mint. A chipmunk taken residence by the shed, filling its cheeks with first acorns of oak. The growth of weeds has slowed, I clear the space for the next season. Residual heat lingers in the crevices of our bodies, back of the neck, center of palm. The clouds loosen themselves, no longer holding in their storms—/

.

wash me in your cool blue

your waters carried by wind

currents traveling south

following the sun.

what is growth if not

in all directions, the elements of weakness?

make me different, and able to hold.

a dare, you might say

but if not would I be living?

let us collect our chances.

and scatter them out like seeds—/

.

One dragonfly hovers over the lake with cirrus clouds threaded pink. Reeds rustle in the evening breeze, air saturated with cricket’s hum. An edge that could extend forever into a night of consecutive dreams. My mind begins the loose association, thoughts unraveling into scenes. It is never lonely here, in this place where sun’s gold never fades. I speak into the water, I listen for their names —/

.

traveling from tree to tree / without a need to touch the ground

growing on the trunks and branches / life of life, layered sound

a tapping on the surface / to hear what’s made inside

the quality of wood / an instrument of slow design

I can feel the globe spinning / and I am barely keeping up

it all flashes before me / the colors and the cost —/

.

still waking up from that dream

don’t know yet what it means

tears rolling off of my body

part of a higher design

water joins water

until it’s all one vast ocean

and land is but a memory

swallowed by the sea.

delayed reaction of the body

after holding it together for that long

we rise up to defend the attacked

even if our voice isn’t ready yet

how long will this nadir last

until we finally turn again towards dawn

I watch how you resist the collapse

but it’s not something I would call strong —//

— m.a.r.

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shimmer from the center, if you choose to enter

the next turn of the spiral, a territory wild

the heeding of the call, to leave the plane of comfort

does not always come in one leap, but in the small movements of day

I stretch the time before me, and occupy it differently

a way I know and don’t know so deeply.

each fruit ripens on its own time, I feel with my hands

the ones ready for picking — /

.

Leaves still green, but lightened by length of sun, casting yellow-tinged light through their skin. What fell in the dry weeks, a carpet of premonition. What grows back while it still has time — I sense the readying for long descent, a stirring not yet visible, but felt. My tired heart yearns for the promise of rest. /

.

cracks between the seams, emergence of the seeds

held inside the pods, ripening their song

a carrier as lungs, to breathe them out as sound.

I’ll meet you by the water, and we’ll watch as they pass by

tracking living current, protecting what’s inside.

we come to know them by their shell, and slowly too the feeling

the energy of what we hold, the gift that we’re receiving — /

.

Find me the fields of goldenrod, endless fruits for bird and bee. Find me the nights as they stretch long, so that I may get some sleep. To the wanderers and exiles, to the mourners and the soon — let us walk a little farther, until the sky turns a paler blue. You’ll know the feeling when you’re on the edge, a shifting of the weight. You’ll know the sound when you’ve passed the fall, the second bloom that waits — /

.

morning of the sleeping flower

evidence of bluest hour

thirst shown by texture of skin

speaking in language outside voice

the small sliver of spectrum

the body manages to catch

hints at the wider lens

the sun rays not kept by earth

they could be reaching out

by a means we can’t even see or hear

they could be saying their names for us

using words we don’t understand — //

— m.a.r.

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On the languid shores of late july, hazy peach sky greets green-thickened horizon, and hoary vervain creeps toward sandy shore. I don’t remember the sumac bushes so dense, crowding out the narrow path parallel to river, red berries ripening to deep maroon. We come to the clearing where the painted bench watches water, soft clucks in the low foliage, a foraging bird of midnight blue. The crickets sing again in the comfort of their own domain — /

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A distant stream, a silver lining. Wilted leaves and absent dew. A heat that settles early in the morning, keeping us tucked in our burrows and rooms. Air felt on skin eclipses all plausible deniability, except for those who keep their windows shut. But we refuse to be the willful blind even when it hurts us (for the pain is a sign of our aliveness) — /

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We are not done yet, for this suspense of heat will end with rain. And we will grow new shapes from the loss, feeling unfamiliar outlines and committing them to memory. The ox-eye sunflower struggles to bloom, tiny petals clenched inward. This morning I will go out and water the thirsty, and they may remember desire again — /

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Light glows muted from dusted window, filter of age, filter to gentleness. The memory of a voice fades, until what’s left is the trust the brain would recall if heard again. These are the weaker months, when strength of sun stultifies the mind, incapable of sleep and too fatigued to dream. Growth reaches its peak and wilts in unfamiliar heat, a premature stunting. We retreat for cover, but the only home is unsafe. We seek for escape, we watch the moon wane — /

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You heard our call and clouded over the night. The morning was dark, and smelled of rain again. Your gentle percussion, spread warmly by thickened vegetation, becomes the white noise of my mind, filling the empty spaces. I want to let the sigh of relief sink so deep into my body. I want to know the depths of my rest — /

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Oh, sweet rains who land softly on this earth. Water of your freshness, we drink deep. The morning after, a new life in the forms of our bodies. We extend out to meet, senses open. For the ones who feel so much, it is safe again for the time being, and what has bent over from the steady pouring rises with new sight — /

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The sky opens, the ground receives. I enter sleep, I fall to dream. What I hear, but have not seen. Where I don’t know, but choose belief. At the archpoint of solstice sun, the roots have formed a web to walk on. Even if the ground were to fall under, I would be caught by the knots they’ve tied. Tell me, can you feel the descent coming? I am ready to fold this all in. Pack it into a tiny seed, and release it into the wind — //

— m.a.r.

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From the haze, a city skyline we could barely perceive the contours of.

From the straight lines of farmfields, the windbroken trees.

From winding roads of lush greens at the edge of the driftless, pregnant from rain, prairie perennials filled every edge, purple and gold.

From the garden tucked behind the boulevard, apples falling from the tree, a large orange spider, busy with her web.

From the annuals perched on windowsills, pink and waving.

From a glance into another life, and the one small chance that this one is ours—

.

The body moves through the space of day and accumulates particles breathed in, becoming what is sensed and not sensed, what is real and perceived as real.

Every night, the body chooses to integrate or release. To infuse with the dream and wake up different each day, the unknown changing us, if we let it or not let it, if we stay open to the seeing—

.

Rain inside the night, unheard by the sleepers. Rivers in the sky, currents high above and afar, the layers we don’t touch except for the winds who meet us with their carriage. The way the wind blows—am I against, or do I follow? A pressure front, a change of course, the chance of lightning on my heart. Am I a wanderer or am I a seeker of a closeness impossible to reach?—

.

shift from crab to lion / sky spread out with cloud

body in recovery / blocking out the loud

a streambank made of stone / the scene when eyes are closed

following the water / a source that leads to sea

leaves we’ve lost to heat / begin now the slow descent

from the height of our green / to the roots from which we dreamt—

.

Forest of the sunflower far above my head. Domain of the flying beings, high on the sweetness of sun. More and more you will see the intelligence of living things, who hear what you cannot hear, who go where you cannot go. This is my assignment, to know where my threshold ends and imagine the places they reside, of which I couldn’t live without. I reach out and try to touch them through the word and the non-word—

.

brothers of the wind and rain / who know how to move out the pain

tell me, what do I still hold / inside me as a stone so old

what is it that I need to do / to dislodge this dam, this stifled stream

I feel my water wanting to flow / fill the bank, inundate the seeds

what I once put in for safety / I no longer need for now-passed enemy

my heart is strong and my blood is thick / so direct my energy to this

loosen from the edges and chisel at the core / and when it breaks I’ll be ready for more—

.

Inside another pair of eyes the land shifts underfoot, opening a crack in the ground that we so readily slip through. Gravity flipped, the sky pulls us upward, walking on clouds vapor condensed, current-carved ridgeways our guide. Everything could feel different if we just got past this, if we pushed through to something easier, but I’m not sure if my body knows how—

.

shadow below, light above / show me the work that must be done

heat that suffocates the day / teach us what we need not say

lone lines of the afternoon / direct me to the secret room

deep origin of the thunder / reveal to me what’s lying under

trickle of the water slow / show me what I already know

emblem of a dying star / watch us reclaim who we are—//

— m.a.r.

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Calm play of shadow and light as cumulus clouds move across the sky. Birds swoop under cover of shrubs, who give generously this year of their fruit. You only have to go out a little further to hear it, those softer layers of soundscape when the city fades. We came back with a tray full of blueberries, spectra of tart and sweet inside small orbs of ripe flesh. Still so many green ones forming, the rains came at the right time, the last frost not too late. Perhaps the good luck will enter me as I swallow— /

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High noon heat presses down, petals shrivel in place. Sunflowers reach higher, escaping the burnt sidewalk. The bees wait for evenings to forage, moving tired and slow. The sun is alone in day, drawing the water from anyone who meets it. Birds sing in the morning before hiding away in the trees. I do my work on the edges, careful not to fall in — /

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Today the light is shrouded through a pink-edged haze, and the leaves rest in hot shade. Body slow and senses dulled, searching for some interior chamber untouched by the sun. I feel myself detaching, floating above and unoppressed by stubborn shapes, water turned to vapor, sweat evaporating from skin. I seek a way out, a way in— /

.

We breathe smoke from burning trees miles north, covering our noses and mouths. The birds still sing, though their soundscape feels sparse and quieted. The land is heavy green and overflowing, and I dreamt the vines reached inside, latching onto my body. The prairie plants sway at the height of their palette, pinks and purples, oranges and sunflower-gold. They breathe for us when we cannot, remembering fire. I imagine the cup plant spreading to fill every open space with yellow— /

.

The wind turned, and we, tentatively exposed, touch what you left your mark on, invisible coatings of dust. The morning sun makes thin outlines of gold behind the leaves. One house sparrow makes simple chirps near the window, which we are not yet ready to open. (I don’t care if no one understands this; I just want to keep coming back until it is a practice I cannot live without. Let me keep accumulating these dependencies until my embeddedness becomes my belonging. Let the fires consume only what is ready to die—) /

.

continuum of air and wind / passage of the currents high

bring to us the distant message / that we will keep safe inside

there’s a light I cannot see / it comes from stars blocked by sky’s sea

but I know when it’s getting closer / by how the water’s movement shifts

we travel in a different direction / whose existence reveals as it unfolds

I’ve learned how my body senses it / barometer of heat and cold— //

— m.a.r.

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Dragonflies dance over algae-covered water, still and shining in the sun. Their large black bodies and wings with blue stripes flash in the blink before changing direction. These are the gathering places, groupings of stones arranged in a semi-circle, at the base of oak tree. A sulphur butterfly extends her probiscis into the vervain, circling to meet each bloom. The sun has touched all of this, and I am touching it back— /

butterfly blessing / restless and unending

even when eyes closed / the dreams moving below

fed by late night lightning / growth faster than I can see

it all comes from the ground / the minerals of you and me

muffled by the vegetation / I play a song no one can hear

except all the beings who absorb my tones / and return them back to the sky— /

Sky warm and heavy with water, who holds out through the day and releases at night. We, half-woken by thunder, slowly recollect the reason for wet pavement, and thank the clouds for their gentle passing. You can tell when the thick greens are grown by influence of lightning. They move faster than me, gifted by the gods, or however you’d like to call charged electrons, birthing bodies out of storms— /

lungs breathing, heart beating / bodies of bone and blood

branches swaying, roots spreading / flesh of xylem and bark

two skins meet by contact / porous surface that lets each through

tasting the other’s substance / memories their photons knew

I am college, composite / continually remembering my form

I am made up of all who meet me /water from a dying star, sugar from a drunken sun

every day my mind recalls the melodies / and shapes them with you into new songs— /

Windows fogged with condensation, shrouding a world of gray and green. The birds are quiet this morning, slow to wake from deep nesting dreams. We take the back alley paths where the wildflowers grow, tall and unhindered past my head, beings that know more of both the ground and sky. We extend our sensors, feeling our barometric pressure, and how it changes when doors are opened. I enter a room between rooms my dreams already knew, a lighthouse with a view from all directions— /

Sudden shudder of single branch, obscured landing of the sparrow. Movement by an outside force, cascades of passed-off reaction. Today the view from the window cleared, and I could feel the tiredness settle in my body. In my dreams I keep solving a problem, a music never reaching resolution. Slowly the floodline is rising, and our stretch of time becomes thin. I know this is all we have, so I close my eyes and dive in— /

Before the moon turned pale and the sky was still dark, I could turn a corner and see the ocean’s surface shining. We walk towards the mirage, always just over the horizon, and forgot to look below the ground for water. Before you said the words, I could tell what was on your heart, heavy and full of hope. We know the names of the flowers, and now we look up to the trees— /

Golden edges to the leaves, a heat that is hard on the body. Gathering the bumper crop, and storing for winter use. The stillness of a summer afternoon, when all creatures are hiding. A star so strong we could drink it from glass, and turn into a flower. Tell me, how much time is left before the birds fledge their nests? I catch a feather from the sky, I can almost see inside— //

— m.a.r.

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These are the deepest depths / we’ll go ‘til there’s nothing left

Sheltered by the heavy leaves / buoyed by the summer leaves

When it’s time to grow, they know / and unbound without hesitation

When it’s time to go, we know / and don’t look back from that season’s station

I can hear the rushing water / into the stream, taken by root

I can feel it rising higher / making a house of dew

The years are already slipping past / and I don’t want to let go

Help me not forget this / always arriving home — /

.

Early summer prairie: white wild indigo and coreopsis. Dragonflies resting on the grass. Savanna oak canopy out, stretching a little wider each year. Small orange butterflies flit between open flower, still short enough we can see across. Hills so gentle you only notice over distance, over open space so filled with life. Air thick with midday birdsong. The water moves around us in a circle, keeping us close as clouds come and go — /

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Galls form on the leaves, accumulated pockmarks of age, slightly yellowed at the edges. Humidity presses down and birdsong quiets, waiting for the worst to pass. I open every window in the room, and feel the wind move from east to west. Seed pods form where there was flower, readying for release. /

.

For every storm, an other side where the unfiltered sun resides, and the water has been taken up by roots and soil. The nature of material is transient, a quality we both fear and find relief in. All this will pass with time, the pain, the love, the devotions we have built over the years with patience. I do not fear deepening my attachments, because if there were no loss, would there be any meaning? /

.

Today the morning sun is gentle, and the lilies open gladly. Blanket flower and vervain show first hints of floral color. I watch the pace of each plant, moving by the rhythm of heat, light and maturity. There is no backwards for them, only a circle which widens as it repeats. After the worst part, it always gets better — /

.

The sky is gray and I am safe / from the urgency and haste

Returning to the body’s rhythm / widening my field of vision

There’s a whisper in the air / I can sense it if I dare

Breathe it in and out as tone / reconnect with the unknown

I don’t need to believe it / to use as a frame for my being

May I remain in this openness / feeling the yearn for the closeness — //

— m.a.r.

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(prelude)

Under a strawberry moon / Mornings that rise from the blue

Tracing new rhythms of familiarity / Pulling the brain out of scarcity

Spreading petals over the tapestry / Opening well-marked books

Letting a thought resound in the body / Listening to the moving leaves

Re-remembering how to breathe / In a space existing without filling

Warmth building up from inside / Sustaining us through the growing nights—/

.

(photovoltaic)

A flash through gap of leaves, a warmth more than skin deep. Held inside their circle, connected branch to breath. This is the season of darker greens, chloroplasts packed cell to cell. How much can be taken up by the surface of our body? A substrate, a drum skin, a mode of aliveness so organic and self-evident, a transparency of color and movement as language for the sun—/

.

(by the hand)

in the thick of cloud, of leaf

in the depths of stream, of sea

in the contrast of the shadow

in the passage of the shallows

there is solace in this silence

a temporary bliss

you are the dream of creation

you are the one who they missed

diurnal beings stirred by sun

not resting until the work is done

please forgive me for trying so hard

we all just wanted to be good—/

.

(by measure of)

Map of loosened seeds / Distribution of our needs

The everlasting berry / Carried in our furs and bellies

Altitude of hanging fruit / Kept what’s left for the birds

Flipped poles overnight / Unsettled by the storm

No waiting for the weary / Who already know the floodlines

Growth rings stacked over years / Speaking in water and flesh—/

.

(emissary)

silent moment after rain

softening residual pain

drinking tea as light turns dark

reflecting on our travels far

tracing passage of the scar

expecting nothing in return

relief of heavy papers burned

sending smoke into the sky

a message for the ones who fly

over river, under cloud

herald of the quiet sound—/

.

(echinacea)

From the green center, tiny white studs rim the edge. Each day they extend up as if to make a cup for the sun, and upon encouragement, splay and spread carefully, color filling in, light pink like a blush. May I attend to the flowers in this way, as they come into form from the first subtle hints, may I see them for who they are, always a becoming —/

.

(aragonite)

lose me in the sea

let me take the time I need

caterpillar into chrysalis

spiraling into the thick of it

find me at the heart of storm

needing to be nothing more

colors enter and collide

bleeding to a soup inside

we are the dream at whirlpool’s center

we are the ones who dared to enter

spreading out our wings to sun

just like the early morning dragonflies

let these bodies gain a strength

sourced from what is ours to take—/

— m.a.r.

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How much water and sun is required / to turn a seed into a flower?

How many times do I read the words / until they are part of my inner world?

How long do we rest under tree branch / before we seek out their name?

How far do we travel upon fading dusk / before we give the growing night our trust?

Now that the ivy has covered the walls / let us seek shelter until the fall

Drinking the nectar and bathing in rain / daring to heed to pleasure over pain— /

This time when the light filters through, the gold has aged into amber. Screen of darker greens dance in cooling wind, who will later turn to storm. The oak leaves peak in their sun-soaking, soft skin turning more solid. The spring flowers, now pollinated, start to form their containers of seed, and the summer blooms phase in — the lilies and milkweed and echinacea. I have opened slowly enough that I can take this in without strain, and am still learning how to ease gently into sleep— /

Droplets rest on branch and leaf / slowly nighttime rain retreats

Into gray of watered dawn / nourished so we can go long

A focus that refuses to break / softened by the dark of day

Collecting mint leaves from the garden / remembering thoughts once forgotten

Coalesce into a sentence / help me formulate the words

I want to reconjure the feeling / from my mind into the world— /

Now the light is soft and clean, and the piercings to the heart are still present but faded. The storm retreats sooner than arrival, faster than the pace of our relief, careful and uncertain. How much residual impact do we still hold, that must be soothed before each night’s descent? I hold the stone in my hands, press its coolness against my chest. I thank the earth for holding the rain. /

Thickened surface, fur and thorn / darkened fruit, matured form

Turn to face the solstice sun / drinking what can’t be undone

From the petal to the seed / following the inner heed

Always circling, never done / life and death, a type of love

I give myself to alive earth / this moment yet another birth

Bringing close the cloud and ground / and from this all, a deep deep sound— /

Today I face the sun without fear and feel how it warms my skin, seeping into the body, into my blood which warms the air and is breathed back out as fire. I am everything I have given, that now lives in sky and soil. I am everything that I have not said yet, waiting for the warmth to reach it. What is life but one long day that stretches into tapered dusk? I only want to feel it, to know that this is more than enough— //

— m.a.r.

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Purple stains in finger beds / Heavy branches overhead

From the soil into forms / Fractal imagery adorns

Development from embryo / Unfolding out of compact code

So much to which we could give birth / The seed already knows its worth

Never running out of time / Bearing flower’s blood divine—

The winged ones gather at the purple catmint, collecting gladly sweet drink—bumblebee, honey bee, sweat bee. The evening is long and pink, and we linger at the river’s edge, wondering what will sustain us when we enter the night. We gather to listen, to share the history of these places, everything before and everything we changed in such short time. There is a branch that splits in two directions—only in one, can we hear the water flow.

Dark leaves waver slow and heavy, letting through gray morning sky. I slowly gain my bearings, letting in the words of the day. It’s a strange thing, to know I could stay here, to know I want to, roots reaching down, arms spreading wide until I am home for hundreds of creatures, until I know how to see these other kinds. If you return to something repeatedly, the mind creates a space to see what it hasn’t before. I want to find the startingly unknown within the deep familiar—

Clouds of lightning and sheaths of rain fill the night with a light not from the sun. The fierce strangeness, the flash too bright and too soon, is not meant to be taken up by this body, but still readily taken by ground shifting chemicals in soil, changing the nature of things so they may be taken up, first from roots, and then perhaps to this own body, changed and stricken—

I wake to the days of the darkening berries, mulberries from red to violet, serviceberries from green to mauve. Florets form on the broccoli and milkweed, fractal arrangements of tiny lime beds. Just one thunderstorm and the growth overnight is astoundingly visible, our sightlines densified to near textures of leaf. The bees hover gladly over monarda and spiderwort, retreating underground in the humid afternoons. I watch the world ripen to sun’s peak—

So many shades of blue, so many parts I knew (but not down to the details as traced veins upon a leaf). I am kneeling in the dirt, watching tiny things arrange and unarrange, and try to track the pace of change in an hour. If I could miss one brief storm in the blink of an afternoon, how many passing blooms do I never see—

Evening of gray descent, and the common milkweed opens flower on the corner lot with the eastern prickly pear (also now in sweet yellow bloom). A monarch caterpillar climbs upper leaf, movements animated and eager, the structure of its house the substance of its eating, an availability without limit. Rain starts falling with increasing density, but the bumblebees keep foraging among the roses. We stay out under cover of broad leaves, walking only as swift as squishy sandals allow. We let ourselves be swallowed by yellow string lights and deep green shadow—//

— m.a.r.

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What darkens sight by degree—heaviness of the leaf, a sigh as the holding of water, just further than what can be touched—becomes a season without age. The rain was soft and steady, the flowers soon to yield weighted fruit dyed deep red for the birds. I worry about the placement of roots—some will make it, some will be eaten or lost to competition. Anytime you can, soften the muscles around the eyes, and let in the light of white roses in the blue before sunrise—

We hold water in the crevices, where it pools and overflows in the gray morning light, blurring boundaries between green and brown, air and earth. We planted the small ones just before the rains came, their soil melding into ours, roots extending, accepting—

The leaves of the pearly everlasting, just coming up, have been covered in a white webby film. Today I saw it all moving, sprinkles of black eggs, and painted lady caterpillars emerging to take their fill. Maybe the flowers won’t bloom, but isn’t this why I planted them? To make homes for the living, to turn strangeness into astonishment—

Contained inside, the butterfly wings unhinged prepare for flight. Offerings laid out overnight open themselves in morning rain. I am not afraid when they hide—the right conditions will come, even if we have to wait for years. I will keep planting, watering, watching—

The strawberries ripen soft pink to coral red. We pick the most ready, and each bite half, a sweetness concentrated into smallness of form. In the milkweeds, small beds of light green buds emerge from leggy centers, leaf undersides dotted with eggs. A season contains a thousand of shades, passing even by the hour—as with the shy spiderwort, who only opens her purple petals after rain—

I let the long evenings teach my body to stretch into shadow, let air enter and fill weighted lungs until they become light again. Let me take these summer dusks as my own, sending sound into the deepening gray-blue, whale-like, a call out to other edgewalkers. I let the damaged roots drink long from the water, I watch as it pools and soaks in, held by the earth—

In the early hours after dreams have played their fears, the birds sing gladly, greeting other side of storm. I feel as the pressure changes in me, like weather, and I choose to remain the ground who is fed by these passings, leaving green things taller the next day. That quiet hum always in the background, taken up and out through the feet—

Memory of a late spring evening, starlight muted by the city haze. Sunset on the shore of our sensing a life that exists above the clouds. Underneath, the reef stirs, a home of vibrations, a restless body we learn how to soothe. Ambience drawn out into shadow, behind the curtains, an unoccupied room. Streams of water encircle a clear spot where the river slows. (What we’ve become and where we’re headed, what I could possibly feel no one knows—) //

— m.a.r.

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Tidelands of the blue mind, safe lake for pondered muses who lighten softly. The dust motes at dusk last all day, until the moon on water rises and moths gather. Soon we could see in the dark, points of light beckoning as fireflies searching for their mates. I remind myself of who I am, a droplet that knows sea and sky—

What shines through the canopy and trickles down to meet the ground, where tiny white flowers drink in their feast of light. Beings of secret paths below the ridgeline, where the shade is cooler and terrain uneven. Music I have seen with my own eyes, and felt the full length of wave on exposed skin. I can conjure back as the river who carries sparkling molecules under a cloudless sky—

Fully wrapped in leaf’s embrace, a layer to shed off the rain. See-through skin to soak the sun, camouflaged yet to become. Shimmering as dusk descends, dare to greet at shadow’s edge. What hides among the foliage, I collect with my eyes the passing flower and press them into my chest. I make a bouquet out of every blossom, so the memories can never end—

And now the roses tumble out from buds, spilling from the overgrown vine onto the concrete. I can see them from the window, pale pink-orange-cream. A color of in-betweens that because I cannot name, I see anew each time. There are tiny hardships I move through every day, due to the nature of being in a body in a world. But I come back to the roses who will be here for a little while, and inhale their subtle offering—

From the chorus one song rose above the rest, and I searched for it in the trees. It was voiced by a small brown bird, discreetly, a warbling whose turns touched something yet unknown, leaves bobbing in the gold evening light. I knew then this horizon could last forever in my mind, if I chose again and again not to forget—

A shadow in the wall, an outstretched hand. Lights turned off, blues gaining dimension. The longest evening, an ever-extending edge. Mind at rest in the calm waters. Too many days without cloud, my body open and exposed. I seek an enclosed space, a room of gray where I can feel the dimensions of myself again. My body wakes me at the tender hour, for I am not made for the heat. Let us find the midnight sun, and on our arrival go back to sleep—

If we waited just a moment more in the quiet space that exists before—we would see water coalesce to cloud, we would sense the rain before it fell to ground. In another life I am walking through the snow. In this life I slowly build a home. I track time by the passage of flowers, and let the seasons sink into my body. From this paper a book I am writing, I don’t know if it will go to the leaves or the wind. But I’ll keep arriving back at this longing, to trace circles ever-widening from the dim—//

— m.a.r.

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Now what has fallen has soaken up the roots and stems, filling out the shapes we so valiantly tried to form. I am tracking the milkweed as they rise, inches a day, and the pasque flowers have yielded to other stems, thickening. We set up pockets where life could be wild, and wondered how we might do the same for ourselves. I oscillate between abstraction and material, seeking something more real than both—

Darkened browns and greens awaken from thunder’s dreams. Morning clouds after the storm bring birds slow to sing forlorn. Below the roots are moving, ground shifting in weight into the bodies of living things no longer locked away. This is what we’re made for, reactions spun from drop and dew. We shelter from the lightning, but come out again renewed—

Tired faces in the dawn look out towards the hidden opacity of matured leaves. Crescents of chime flicker green, layers of drone hold steady, subconscious. Spring water rising from warming ground, safe place the embryo of sound. Left behind the endless possibilities, we went out, the melancholy aching so beautifully. Wishing well the future passings of stars, visible far above this city cloud—

Vascular forms of webbed connection bear water upwards and out, filling structures of green transparency. A skin no longer dry exposes full surface area, revealing a truth of potential realized. The unblocked flow enters the waiting stream and travels, carrying message over distance. We made close contact, and could tell without words what was needed. The timing of water, which we gently collect in containers of listening—

Let this space expand into the gray dawn, candlelit. Let me recall colors of mystery, and conjure them with water. Let me remember the right ways of living, and visit you each day in silence. Let me know the taste of each fruit by the sound of your voice. Let me float on the river, and carry me to a shallow shore—

I let the silent morning fill my insides, birdsong in the background of awareness. Now the tulips and lilacs are fading, giving way to iris and poppy and rose. The greens are darker, more experienced, still growing like me, finding the shapes they want to take. We have seen the first storms, and there are more to come. We have seen the first monarch butterfly, and wait expectantly for her party. We hold faith in the return.

— m.a.r.

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Low buzz of bumble gliding past, sweet vibration felt on skin and leaf. Your percussion presence I interpret, from code to conversation. If I could follow from past to sundown, that space between where bodies build in heat and give off like stars. Our letters would lift as constellations we could trace with one finger, the residue a pollen, dusting surfaces in search—

We can move towards shade and lean against the tree. We can let grow what wants to grow, and every day visit her flower. We can bring the water closer to her thirst, and drink often. We can watch colors collide, kaleidoscope, making new shapes. Every day, let me come a little closer to the dream I recognized in another. Inside me, the green reaches out in offering, my palm, open, to the sun—

Could there be more heaven than a flowering oak branch in the evening sun? The realness of organic matter, fresh into form, manifests the mystery of life’s remembrance held inside small things. The bumblebees float, drunk among the strawberries, and I am glad.

Now the refuge thick and shaded can hide wandering thoughts again, and we can rest outside without fear of cold’s wear on the body. I had a dream that you came to meet me under leaves, and we exchanged a gift unspoken. I let my hair fall loose and collect brambles like gems, an agent of dispersal. Things are changed now, but the essence only grows stronger. Let my rest not be interrupted, let my dreams extend to shifting threads I can follow like a stream—

Ants climb the oak tree, shelter made of living things. A bumblebee who lost her way, dazed upon the ground she lays. Strawberries in full bloom, bells of columbine in sway. Plush carpets of phlox, dotted tufts of violet. Slowly the land makes room for what’s been waiting to come back—

Subjects gain new internal levity, buoyed by the cohesions of dew. Vascular expression amplified, fills in my heavy sight line. We were made to hold water, carried over to the next shore. Ashes strewn on the riverside, tensions released by the storm. You were always good at anticipation; we could tell by the forms of the clouds. It was just another waystation for the birds, flying from the south—

I spread my surface so when water flows across, every part is touched. Our delicacies exposed to what the air carries, a chance landing, a mosaic of conditions lined just so as the sundial to activate sweet release. Reaching out blindly, with the trust that like attracts like. The water, becoming a mirror—

— m.a.r.

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Violets, purple, white and yellow. Carpets of trillium and cutleaf toothwort. A red cardinal, perched still in stream of sun. Tidings of bellwort and wood poppy. Virginia bluebells, frilled at the edges. Three dragonflies dancing in the marsh marigold, ostrich fern unfurling. The new leaf who drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

Now the thickened vegetation draws us close under canopy, and hard words can be spoken with ease. I do not need hesitate to say it, old scripts of reservation fade away. I let the truth be brave and real, like the orchid coming into flower. The most special places don’t let me photograph them, at least not directly, but they stay strong in my mind. The light, the life, the curve of ground. Shaded from exposure, I unstiffen, and let you see more of me—

The sun rises before my waking, my body moving slower than time. I seek a stream who is flowing, but apart from this, I do not seek. There are things I still believe in, but I no longer need to know the name. It comes to me as a feeling, before just in the dim but now in the day. I learn to live like this, the loudness of sound, the brightness of touch. There’s something I’m meant to give from the pain, before it becomes too much—

Outside the shadow cast thickens in density, and the light whitens toward noon. Angles of grace dwindle to point, and heat enters through crown of head. Now that we were more transparently true, we didn’t have to speak through metaphor and poem, but we do it anyway for the beauty. Some things are not what they seem, the brown bird with the long song, the missing feather we kept in a box. We learned how to keep the sun inside, for hours after it passed—

What beckons, the tumbling edge. Rock into river, swayed and smoothed. What stays far longer than we like, so we turn it to underside and carve a new shape. What remains in the body I could exchange through liquid, and feel the repercussions for days. What we turn to with clarity, having lived and seeking more life—

Honey light settles into grass blade and leaf, sweetening the drink of bitter greens, who while fresh and tender, sting strong. Warm and cold, but not too much, dance across bare legs like small clouds moving smooth in the sky. I know what to expect now (always to a certain degree) but a part of me softens as I stretch up to smell the lilac. It will keep turning, and I will turn with it, letting the changes ripen my body—

In the corner that stays cool, I rest my body as it touches water, flowing over skin. I seek translucent forms that the light can pass through, like young leaves and dragonfly wings, stained-glass artifacts who tell their stories by exposure. The innocent drawn to the innocent, windchimes made from wood and metal—

Now the wind is softened by density of green, and water can be drawn from the well. Slowly, I clear the overgrowth, and make places to sit and watch the birds. I am lucky I am here, in a place I want to stay as long as I can, deepening and ripening to a flavor so full—//

— m.a.r.

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What descends with graciousness upon the unsatiated earth, the darkening clouds of promise. The flowers listened and opened for the bees, despite our fear they would miss the shifting cue. If the tensing body’s intent is safety, then let my unfolding be a marvelous risk. My skin bleeds in the dirt, mixing. I uproot the disruptors, set tiny seeds in the openings—

Now the rain has soaken in, I can feel it flow through our bodies, roots and arteries, filling out the space and bringing color to skin. The sun makes warm spots to lie down and listen to the birds. I am tucked inside the last days of april, a dimmed spring safeguarded by cloud. Today I will stay close to the ground, reacquainting myself with the waking soil—

Gray and green is all I need to remind me of my inner ease. Let rains darken the surface, reveal beneath the waiting purpose. Sitting in a quiet room, I let the feelings move through. Gone away with restless action, to what is good for the heart (even if it’s the smallest part). Promise me you won’t lose touch, and take a break when it’s too much. To check in with the clouds in the sky, who know that you’re doing just fine —

The birds sang until late in the evening, when the sky turned a dusty dark. They flitted at the edge of my consciousness, before my mind let go of all thought. Some hours are harder than others, and I wish I knew how to soften them, to make the rest easier. I am lucky I am here, and is it supposed to feel this hard? Let me tend to the little things until I am stronger—

I feel the years inside me as chapters. I feel the cross of cold and warm air on my skin. I feel the closed rooms waiting patient for me to come back in, and remember how their angled light settles on my body. I feel everything I’ve accumulated, bags of seeds I could sort and store or scatter them all at once, and create a meadow out of my emptiness. I don’t need to wait for the good rain. I know where the well is, and the path that will take me back home—

Thank the earth, water and light, for these leaves who now before me sway. Thank the oaks along the river bluff, who fan out their canopies as a long awaited bass note. Thank the bloodroot who silently retreats as soon as it came, leaving behind spreads of broad leaves and crushed scent. Even though you are too trodden now, I still feel your endless outpour when I enter, sun setting from the west, yellow-green cast of another chance —

Now under shaded cover, I rest in the middle of day. Clouds passing overhead, water running through my veins. The growth is faster than can be believed. I let it wake the movement in me, a call to active witness. Soon the lilacs will be blooming and I will inhale their sweetened scent, lingering on in my mind like a familiar melody dreamt—//

— m.a.r.

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Fire sun on dawn-time snow round crystals into curve, gleaming with blinding brightness on the greening grass of april. Soaking in slow, warming as it melts. Not the harshness of ice, but moldable and shaped to suggest the outlines of things while staying hidden, the edge of skin. In this season, the descent into madness for those too attuned to the wrongness of timing and its wear on the body —

I encountered you (cherry blossom on the river) in a different time of day, your petals struck by the gold of late-afternoon light. Do I really know you, until I’ve seen you in all states (which can never be exhausted)? Even so, this one glance is a doorway into your being, open and ready to receive from a creature who may not be here yet or even exist. Still, we wait for the signs.

Green so bright it turns to gold. Liquid sun taken in before the rains come. The possibility of petals made real by daily growth. Always faster than I can track in the north where spring is flushed and wild. Can you recognize the form before it matures? A root, a stem, a leaf. I am here to learn all their shapes, and greet them upon their arrival.

What was lost in the cracks comes out the other side as a green sprout, who only knows the newness of a young life, and the phototropic pull to go towards the light. Soon our stems had thickened, and we could carry a weight greater than ourselves. So that water might flow through and inform the shape of our bodies as streams of movement towards a source —

Seven shades of green, degrees of light and wind. Sound made out of motion, waits before the rain. Expansion of our range, no longer out of reach. Spectrum of our sight, nuance of our speech. Finally the seed, has turned into the sprout. Finally our knowing, overcomes the doubt —

And now the green widens itself to become a screen for light to filter through, and we find refuge under canopies of tinted gold. The body releases remains of winter’s stagnation, and I am left tender like the unfurling fern. This time let us take in the beauty as our food, and rest abundantly. This time, may my small acts of daily care grow inside me a soft strength — //

— m.a.r.

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A yellow goldfinch swooped down to branch near my second-floor window, stridently offering his song against a gray-lit sky. His plumage shone brighter than the light, brighter than the dark of rain-soaked ground. An outward energy burst from his small insides, and I am suddenly overcome by the gift of birds still here on this earth, despite us—and I wonder if it was first from them we learned to sing—/

White and purple petals with yellow centers, facing toward the unobscured sky. Unashamed of the crumbling veils that clothe them, leaves of last year’s demise. Small-winged creatures emerged today, beetles circling the open air, currents of search and bewilderment. The sun is growing, and my body doesn’t know how to respond, sensing cracks in the rhythm —/

Oh how the quiet air fills with vaporous drink, and the forsythia in bloom glows from the dim. You were the pale yellows of early spring, so foolish and free in your openness. There is a place where I haven’t grown tired yet, made from watercolors and rain. The daffodils nod in the midday wind, easing the pain of the age —/

Robins bounce in the leaf litter. A pair of chickadees flit between budded branches. The white magnolia begins to flower, lawns are studded with indigo squill. A heron drifts over the highway. Two large black birds with orange beaks (double crested cormorants?) traverse above the river as I gaze across. A single speckled feather streaked with yellow on the dirt path I cross, where the cottonwoods and willows with their flowery tendrils and the brightness of young green. I try to make contact, let it all be seen—/

The morning sun now fills the kitchen with deeper orange, making patches of light on the walls and floors, stages for shadow puppets, the outline of our cat’s ears as he watches backyard birds at his station. The tulip heads are just beginning to bud, and the spreading strawberry is already green. It’s been rumored the eagles in the tree on riverside road have an eaglet in the nest, which they reuse and strengthen each year. A big bunny has been ambling around our side yard, nibbling grass, her fur the perfect color of last year’s leaf litter —/

A quiet female cardinal lands on branch of maple tree, chipping as she bobs side to side, jingling the new yellow-green leaflets still curled in the act of unfurl. Yesterday I passed the happiest tulip I ever saw, just born and red petals splayed open, drinking in the light —/

Blue-gray of river and sky held between by young green and those soon-passing days of white blossoms on the bluffs. Soothe the piercing pain with delicate beauty, somehow stronger than everything else. Your cherry petals float and fall, scatter the brown path like a ceremony. Let this last inside me, ephemeral eternal—//

— m.a.r.

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