after letting go

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saturday spring mornings
(cool and still
flooded,

inundated
with desire)
draw me to the sweetnesses of sense
the pink and abundance of cherry blossoms blooming by the river
the smell and feel of salty air cascading from the rapidly moving tidal straight

memories of the refreshing taste of grilled cactus on a warm spring evening
the potent heat of my lover’s touch

i woke to craving
craving art
simple words drawn together in intricate ways
craving sounds of the city
(birds and river communing outside my open window)
craving the floral and rustic tastes of my morning earl grey
to escort me through newly opened doors in old-found dharma

i listen to Andrew Bird’s Echolocations: River
where a pizzicato fiddle
is the sound of cherry blossom pedals dropping into the roaring river
(after slow and steady descents

after letting go their flower, their tree)

where they ride
and are carried to some other small corner of this bustling city
perhaps to rest a moment on a nearby rock that hugs this narrow island
perhaps into the deep belly of the east river

the city is a strange place for the subtleties of nature
where they are easy to ignore
and are overshadowed by the loud voices of manmade things

alas, if you are still and listening
you can recollect the seeds
in the middle of the city
where the birds and trees and rivers hum
in a kind of brightness that hushes the loudest of sirens

january

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january brings emotional ups and downs.  sleeplessness and prophetic dreaming. bouts of sadness bingeing on distractions and self-shaming. 

nothing is perfect as i wake from a refreshingly simple dream.  one from some other reality - some combination of past and parallel worlds.  a reunion with an old friend -  a tissue box moving on its own - nighttime in the city in winter.  the unadorned marvel of the multitude of lives across the street.  glowing from their own metric squares of light varying slightly by design.  some from Christmas lights.  some from the UV rays of their TVs.  some from the yellow of their kitchens.  peering out from my window into theirs, I ponder the variations. and remember life outside my own.

then to wake into the monotony of it - and with the dull realization that i've been dreaming.  of nothing particularly arresting.  and in this same room - though a different time of day, a different friend, year.  a dream about dreaming of different possibilities.  I wake to find it's morning - and still - I’m boxed in by cold and repetition. 

so i look to the window.  and snow is falling.  and as simply and fully as i noticed the many lit apartments in the fall of evening in my dream, i gather the snow.  awe-filled and grateful for the reminder of blank slates and fresh canvases. 

the thing that the new year promises and deflects, the snow brings back. amidst the seasonal jolts of insanity - the tufts of self indulgent hibernations - the intimacy of nerves

comes the snow. 
silent and falling.

beneath it i can bare loss.  i can bare regret. 
rejection. jealousy.
i can bare short comings.
lost opportunities.

beneath it, I can notice the smallest change of light and remember the closest possibilities in my dreams.