into my groundlessness when I bought a chicken,
bulb of lemongrass,
celery, and an
onion, to cook up a broth to lift up any road-weary bones.
sipping on sunshine.
Then I borrowed a bicycle,
a map, and an
extra pair of socks, and rode across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County.
Two nights in the redwoods,
one swim in the ocean,
can of sardines,
two avocadoes and a package of rye bread
a turmeric stained spoon and too much
I turned off my phone when it was almost dark, and listened to the ways the sounds changed as the light faded. I yawned. I was so tired
of street lights and
crowded subway cars and the way my
shoes sounded when I walked fast on the concrete and too many
I meandered along the river, and watched the stars peek out through the tree canopy. Then I wiggled into my sleeping bag, sinking into the bed of pine needles and leaf litter, and wrote letters to you
and drew a picture of my tent nested in the trees. I yawned.
It was so hard to rest in the city. It was so hard to sleep with the fluorescent bulbs streaming through the windows. The loud voices. The running. I told myself to soak up the redwood wisdom and engrain the stillness of the trees into my skin. open up my pores.
you can bring this anywhere!
I brought some home.