Saying “I love you” is the least
balanced thing I do. In order
to bring the words to mind, nevermind
to mouth, I have to distance myself from
you and the rainbow inside of me who want
everything perfect and resonable and true.
I have to make up lines as I go along, assuage
the person in my right who says I’m wrong,
give the person that I see who is you a chance
and not look too closely through it all.
And way more important than anything
is not to look too closely at me –
just get close enough to it all to feel
the warmth we share, then open my mouth:
I love you.


In the field there is the tree I call “The Singer.” She is so out there, so full. Each of her years is a display of prosperous and prodigious longevity. Her limbs have fallen several times, she has no discernable trunk, no core, she’s all out to her edges. Still and evermore open to the winds and covered with apples when it’s her time to be in fruit, same for blossoms. She is a tree to emulate. A tree for the future.






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