The day swallowed; in
the sun too long,
burning, I would run,
always behind a
shadow, a butterfly
I think, following
one created small, too –
carried with the wind
when it gusts, wings
assumed by outline
of one who flies.
Either way, the reminder of
fragility, to be made barely,
front a too bright light, colorless
and I know looking back pointless;
she follows whether I look or
do not see, so I found
a place with the trees
once – how I felt held
light as a paper; they reminded
of my father, catching
where made empty by an arm
with too needy of so much
and I un-did a bit,
unfolded at the feet
of every giant – a
once girl, become
heavy with rain
marking outline of roots
upon a blank page kept
in the back pocket,
to be impressed upon
like a map presses,
a way to the third self,
as infinite as the tree
I chose as mother, who
is here always by choice,
my own at least – without
taking of it, only the way
I feel be-side, leaning
upon, just a bit
into a way that would
choose life despite,
feeling like work
has been done/
I can fold along old creases
I felt once my weakness
as if how we begin is
the cause of pain,
and twice a child,
once pressed quiet as
a blanket ironed flat
is made agreeable,
draped upon, to fill gaps
and shaded places
of the one who
made her –
the first rendering,
draping upon every
coldness in the self
like a tree feasts on the
own, fallen leaves.
skipping stones 