100 years

I asked her to tell me, the secret.
I asked her to tell me, how I too could live in this way
joyful. a life
sprouting seeds to spread for love of others
of moments
of breathe.

And she told me.
For to not compare oneself to others.
Not to count the ways
in which another face
another voice
a different name
could possibly
be more.
She told me.
To know what you have
you can be thankful.

She told me.
And I remembered.

Not for granted are the toes
of my bending steps,
and the orange and red autumn trees
that walk me home,
perhaps in the hand of a new friend
with shared laughs,
the tear that I may drop from my eye,
when she soars back to dance among old friends,
and the push of water in my ocean swim,
where the reflection of my sister resides.

She told me.
And I listen.

Resting in peace. Isabelle Elias. 100 years and 4 months.

I write

I watch and
I eat
I play and make
I draw
I eat
I play and walk
I eat
I read
I listen
I drink
I write of the bore that
is a day of today
where the cycle is of this
cycle of doldrums
and destitute
meaning in a walk, a draw, an eat, a read, and a write.

what I've got

a stomach of gnarled fibers
runs its way around

picking fine details of encrypted
old sounds

all six legs
striding for the
final
let go

an end.
we find it.
to slow-ly

beating the sounds

breaking teeth

with a soothing smoothing.

We are settled here.
we settle all where
we settle in our pattern of

footsteppings.

random raindrops

Random Raindrops

travel slowly into unchosen puddles
streaming along a path provided
by something set
before.
and then
they cross other larger streams
of raindrops losing their own
way and loosening
to the pull.

Maybe we will pass through the pond of drops.
Or maybe we will look for another
and miss.
Or the footsteps will find the same ground, untimely.

Or the ocean will flood into the feet of those who are strongly planted
and
the fruits
will then gloriously swallow the sun.