on the day that february decided to be july

on the day that february decided to be july

i drive k and e to the train for their adventure south just as the sun is

i drive home from the train and thread my way through the morning mist

i arrive home to empty the bucket of maple sap from the tree in the yard into a pot on the wood stove (still unlit) (too warm)-which makes five pots of varying sizes- all full to the brim with maple sap, waiting. to boil.

i put on leggings and sneakers and run around the block because it is already almost warm enough for a t shirt, and i see j who is also running, so we run together for five minutes.

we drink maple sap in the open doorway.

all before breakfast.

the red winged blackbirds come out and I see them in the garden and the air is thick with shorts and tank tops and rushing river melt.

i press send on the seed order for the plants i’ll tend in the spring.

the chunks of ice shrink in the shade.

i go to bed before the stove is ever lit.

the cooking pots of sap will wait for tomorrow, when we light a fire, when it is winter again.

in their reflective gear

when i fall 5 times (we are counting) (not a contest) in between
walking up and down the mountain
because of how shoes slip on ice disguised under snow

when t taps on two white pines at the
almost bottom of the mountain,
at the edge of my favorite swim spot north of northampton
and listens to their notes,
announcing them to be a major

when i am saying goodbye to k and e as they’re leaving the house in their reflective gear and bicycle helmets around 7:30pm meanwhile i’m wearing my hooded blue sweatshirt and striped underwear mindlessly playing small notes on the piano, but after the door shuts, i press my foot against the pedal and revel in loud dissonance.

between rain

the cusp between rain and snow

the cusp between 26 and 27
(years) (old)

the cusp between bedrooms (the one I have now, and the one at the top of the stairs with a pink carpet that is recently empty, where i am camping out tonight)

the core of an apple, russet colored, on my empty plate

the quill of a porcupine, sitting on my shelf after our long day of tracking through the woods, which finally led us right up to its den in an abandoned culvert, in a stream, in a valley in the stand of hemlocks, and right up to its face staring back at us from deep inside the long dark tunnel after we shone a flashlight down it to see what we could see.


as new as this year

identifying the mid point in winter, like i would notch
its height in a tree trunk, marking this moment in time.

seeing the last month laid out in front of me in the form of 3 by 5 watercolor drawings, (the hobby that is as new as this year) that are resting on the floor next to the lamp
and the aloe plant

seeing my name tag, (the one from the meditation retreat) (the retreat that set the tone for everything that has followed)
in the thick juicy aloe leaves

wrapping myself in a blanket and slipping my feet in oversized boots, to walk outside at the turning point between night
and day, to see if i can spot the blue super moon in the early morning.

and seeing it across the road through the neighbor’s trees, looming above the horizon, i want to follow it somewhere i can grasp it more fully,
but i don’t, and i carry my longing back inside,
slipping off the boots, and climbing the stairs back to bed

loose at lunch

we learn
that the dog’s name is rita, and that she has gotten loose at lunch
as k and I are
sitting in the communal eating area on the third
floor of the old industry building that’s been converted into offices, trying to have a meeting about past conferences and future seed swaps, and
rita’s owner (presumably) chases the group of homeschool kids away from the long table so she can eat
lunch at her (presumably) regular spot,
so I ask her (rita’s owner) about what she does in the building (silk screen printing) and rita starts hacking up a cough under the table
and then all of the rest of the silk-screen-printers come to join her for lunch (or I don’t know who else they could be)
and it becomes suddenly impossible for k and I to continue our meeting, between the silk screeners
and the coughing dog
and the homeschool kids exiled to read their book in a different corner of the hallway so we retreat back to the office to continue talking about seeds somewhere else.

taste of a wild

the plastic bouquet of flowers i see in the trash, and leave there

light, the color of beach sand, that glows orange and pink at around four thirty in the afternoon

the taste of a wild rose hip, something like watermelon candy mixed with lemon and the smell of petals that lands on my tongue as i suck out the flavor from the tiny fruit as i’m walking home along the river.

the whoosh of stillness that comes

the whoosh of stillness
that comes with
sitting on the wooden stool
after getting home from singing
in the drizzling rain, planting garlic, harvesting the last of the cabbages,
pulling out dandelion, mulching the beds, among the other things, with all those good people that came out to
be with me in the


the slight movement of ribcage
soft sounds of car tires on wet pavement
and then the clanking of someone putting away dishes downstairs,
remembering that mine are still dirty in the sink
but not giving into the urge to call out
i’ll do those!
and instead just sitting there
noticing the movement of air
with a particular
of settling into my skin, holding the vibrations of all of the talking singing event-organizing more talking hugging laughing more singing more event-organizing that i did in the