dear mary o,

dear mary o,

the soft animal of my body is in crisis.
i went to the river and got turned back
by mosquitoes,
of all things.

i went to the forest
and got turned back by sadness.

i sat in the long grass
turned my eyes to the sky
and was blinded
by impatience.

it has been so long
since carrots tasted like carrots
and tomatoes tasted red.

my toes, too long in shoes,
forgot the forgiveness of sand.

the dirt under my fingernails
was replaced by ink
– which was not so bad at first
but it is hard to wash off,
and doesn’t smell nearly as wholesome.

your galaxy always seemed so much

even the flapping wings,
the hot buzzing of insects
possessed a stillness.

my galaxy is now – OMG! – so OTT
i can barely
stand it.

so: i have begun construction
on a new planet. admission is by invitation
only. no plastics, electronics
or genetically engineered food products allowed.

lichen, wolves, geese, snakes
and yes, mosquitoes
will be welcome.

fish and bees will thrive.
forests will no longer be sad.
water will be entirely

i would like you, mary o.,
to cut the (all-natural, organic) ribbon at the grand opening
of my new planet.

there will be hummingbirds
and singing
and frollicking dogs
and lemonade and

the soft animals of our bodies
will love themselves again.

we will dance
under the whispers
of the moon

and all of our masks
will come off.


carpal tunnel mountain

what the river says

go slow
feed me
forgotten how,
forgotten you used to know this;
but it will come
back to you)

talk to me
bathe in me
stand near me
lie down beside me

be still
hear me
take a drink
water yourself
use me as breath
as guide
your personal elixir
your own grand

dip your toes in me
it cleanses us both

what the mountain says

banff bloggo slow
approach with respect
bring sturdy shoes

feed me
hear me

do not take that photograph
do not take that phone call
take a deep breath
take a leap of faith

disconnect the laptop
reconnect the dots:
land to sky
foot to rock
hand to heart to head to hand

walk on me
walk through me
take comfort in my ancient underground hum
as your foot provides comfort to me

i breathe spark
i breathe mint
i breathe wild rose and sage
and purple green grey mist
just like you do


what the caribou says

go slow
i am not that different from you
lost child
we walk the same trail
our heads heavy and

connect to the earth
hear what is beneath
accept the obstacles you encounter
know every path began
with unclear intent

feed yourself
take what you need
leave some for others

listen. wait.
listen. wait.
listen. wait.

be aware

what the writer sees

carved into the side of the mountain
jackhammers, chainsaws
drown out the song of the jays

deer can’t feed on daytimers and dollar signs

what happened
to the art
that used to live
in the earth?