a ritual to start the work week
Fern spikes sprout cranial
and wild, bright ideas
speckled with creamsicle
clouds and papery smoke
puffs. Blades droop,
a cluster of upturned mops
with winding and forked handles. Tiny
smiling umbrellas huddle
and hang like the stringy
threads of moss that recline
restful on the sofa. A pane
of forest reaches over
a bough-crowded frame,
striped with vines that spit
broad palms, open and hungry
for sun. Gold cuts
through ceaseless green.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
A stampede of clouds hurtle
over Lake Michigan, make
leopard spots on the surface,
teal and cerulean faux-fur
flecked white in the wind. Sand bars
ripple, zebra stripes reaching
north-south beneath the east-west
push of the water. Checks
and stripes of city blocks
and boulevards, paisley parks
that curve aortic into the hearts
of neighborhoods, each pattern
feels closer than the last
until we touch down
on the yellow-hemmed tan suit
that buttons this city to every other,
all business, lined with caution
and a wink, a welcome.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
brows rise, sweat clouds rain
on this pea soup of a day
— “because it’s August”
small feet thump, groove tunes
hum from old speakers, still crisp
— “Dance, No One’s Watching”
tables of empty
cups, clean plates and full bellies
— “thanks for being here”
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Facing unfamiliar faces, it’s easy
to turn and face the sea
instead, look into
endlessness as if it were knowable,
or known. It’s easy
to opt out of
unknowns in front of us,
self-select for safety
and tell ourselves
it’s exclusion. It’s easy
to turn away from
our fear of being seen and
face the perfection outside
ourselves, forgetting
our part in it.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
One for the spark to start anew.
Light the wick. Melt the wax.
Two for the flame ’tween me and you.
Feed the fire. Keep it back.
Three for the blaze that lives to grow.
Light the wick. Melt the wax.
Four for the torch that holds the glow.
Feed the fire. Keep it back.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Patience, friends, we are
but human: bound
to pack and stack
each muddy brick
on our endless quest
toward the sky.
They leave our hands
weary, our feet
worn, but our hearts,
bellies and eyes
never check their reach.
Upward, we strive,
slowly molding impossible hopes
into our reality.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
The leaves are not the tree’s clothes
but its mouths, scarfing
up sun to inch ever closer
to what feeds them. The mountain
does not shroud itself in shrubs
out of shame, it shows itself —
a home left unlocked, daring
us to loot it. The smell of upturned soil is
a blessing, a thank you
for taking up the invitation laid
at our feet. Only we
felt the need to cover her
as we cover ourselves. Open up
my loves: let us in. Share
the letter your bones send to your skin.
Fold it into your palm and slip
it between my vertebrae, make me
lean in, inch ever closer
to what feeds me.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
your fire soothes like summer rain
my icy blood gushing
deluginous through gutters
deep inside me delusion
rises to my mind dumps its drowsy
steam into synapses burdens
their gaps with aplomb
emptied into puddles
and cleansed of portents
leaving only cascades of
potential pride
in its place to reign
love notes
a ritual to start the week
look in to look out for
yourself: find signs of yourself
radiating in others:
riches within their hearts expand
your heart into cracks
like gold to heal them:
and behold your soul
how it glows made whole
love notes
a ritual to start the week
The doors in the house only close
properly when summer
reaches peak heat and the air hangs
like a wet towel
around our necks. They click
into place, their mechanics catching
like old friends who haven’t chatted
in a minute
but still know how to fit
into each other’s breaths, still feel
the warmth in their embrace.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Sun fills the sky and clouds fill my head,
angry thunder rumbling in my cheeks,
as lightning streaks down my throat.
My body is certain these spring blooms
seek nefarious ends belied by their delicacy.
Ah, azalea! Ah, peony! Ah, rose!
Your pinks ring my irises and your thorns
grow tracheal, sting my insides. Why yes,
I will dare to sniff once more.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
