when there is an extra burst of light in the noticeably dark restaurant,
and then twice,
just for a few seconds at a time,
coming from somewhere i can not place
and i ask my companions what is that light?
and h says the back door, at the same time that p says the heavens opening up
and we all laugh
the hugeness of the red pink gold blue sky cradling me as I pedal home past all of the corn, and upon entering the wooded path the light fades so much so that the fireflies become the
flashing bike lights
of the fairies
ly loses her top front tooth in the somewhat sacred five minutes when everyone is actually quiet and journaling in their sit spots scattered along the trail after lunch and she runs to me from the shelter of sticks that she’d claimed since monday,
smiling with her hand outstretched
and there is a little bit of blood where she had been wiggling and wiggling. i tell her yes you can bring it inside and get cleaned up.
when we’re all walking out of the woods back to the classroom, h, who is also seven years old, looks like she is thinking very hard and tells me she is jealous of ly losing her tooth.
i tell her that i didn’t lose most of my teeth until 5th grade, but i’m not sure it’s a comfort in the moment
and i am left to wonder about the cravings of growing, even if it means
the coming apart of us,
shedding teeth like
a process of molting i’d forgotten i’d done.
in the dream the girl is five years old, and it is clear that i had abandoned her. she looks up at me with her blue green eyes as if she’s asking the hardest question in the world, and i feel the pressure of whatever it was i had done weighing down on my chest.
kneeling in the wet ground i plant the
the ones i had started on my windowsill in june, the ones now with root bound bottoms all interlaced and overgrown, craning their still strong stems upward to see the sun and i say
that it took me this long to find bare earth to plant them. and the drizzling rain christens their new home.
but they’re not from around here, m, who is 6, says
about the gypsy moths, when i stop him from smashing a crowd of them that we find on the giant oak tree. well, are you from around here? i ask him, to which he nods emphatically, not knowing the connection. it’s just a little more complicated than that. i say, and we catch up with the group walking into the woods.
Lying perfectly still on the carpet in my room, at about three o clock in the afternoon on saturday, moving in and out of dreaming and acute awareness of the blood pumping through my body, thinking for a moment about the vietnamese walking stick bug, which is in order of insects called Phasmatodea.
phasma is from the latin for ghost, referring to their excellent camouflage, which includes their ability to be perfectly still for hours and hours.
several of these walking stick bugs live in a glass enclosure at the education center where I work, and i stop by the welcome desk to watch their usually unmoving bodies
clinging to cut branches of multiflora rose.
the lifespan of a vietnamese walking stick bug is about five to seven months. they do not need mates to reproduce. there are only females in the glass enclosure, and they have been successfully breeding (parthenogenetically) for about
stepping into the darkening woods from where I had just been collecting
handfuls of black-capped raspberries and wide open sky,
greeted by a hundred points of scattered
light flickering over the ferns and in between tree trunks.
a lightning bug spectacular.
what if this could be our way of celebrating july 4th instead of those booming light shows of independence?
straddling our bicycles
at the crosswalk of the traffic circle (roundabout) (rotary)
holding a lost (and now found) phone in our hands,
accessing the contacts list without a passcode,
and talking about the pros and cons of whether recent calls or favorites
would be a better place to start searching for the owner.
i wouldn’t want someone calling my most recent calls at 10:30pm on a monday night i say to r, so we go to favorites and we call wade.
my listening to David Whyte speak
through the laptop speaker
from a youtube video,
is truncated by the strokes of my knife on the cutting board
slicing through a sweet potato
we shape ourselves to fit this world
and i pause to better hear
and by the world are shaped again
and even though i have never heard his voice before, i can hear my voice in his voice, and what he is saying sounds all too familiar because i
had been the one who recited his poem
for a small open mic, in a library overlooking a lake surrounded by white pines
just in the spring.
how I am struck
with tenderness towards the
arrangement of objects
that i’ve just arranged on the
small white shelf of a
small white bookcase,
as i step back to look at how it appears from
a bell, a glossy brown seed of a lucuma fruit, a rusty metal figurine of kokopelli, a watercolor of a purple cloud, a letter, handkerchief, poem, feather, harmonica, a shell
how i am looking at the list I made four days ago: things/ways to make a home,
feeling good that i had done many (if not all?) of the things i had written in just a few hours, but wondering if they are actually enough
make some kind of arrangement of sentimental objects write every night arrange special lighting (candles?)(good lamps) have a meditation spot/writing spot hang up poems/ art ferment some vegetables
the way the tiniest piece of dried sage
burns in the new room
in the new house
and i gently wave it around the scattered piles of clothes whose places i haven’t yet found