The days when the color of the sky swims
in and out, dipping into the tops of trees,
pressing against the wind so hard it feels
like flying. Thoughtful hums and clicking
wild with distant going back and forth
from the beginning to the ending. We
listen to the shapes getting larger and
smaller with glares and shadows moving
closer or further as the sun shakes the day.
We lay on the surface like skin tugging
for the roots to fold onto us for feeling
the cracks and the rips of stretching for
something new to be. The woods
roll under and over like layers of old
secrets and whispers of hints, as they push
into one another, holding then letting go.
Inhaling the textures of colors, sticking
like sweat when the air feels hot in my lungs.
And
exhaling like we know depth and distance from
getting lost in the backdrop sweetness of home.
YOU ARE READING
dirt & human
PoetryThis collection has the dirt for my grave and my soul for God but when it rains there's meaning for my muddy heart. (Some of the poems are older and published already, I moved them to this collection, so if you recognize a poem that's why.)
