it is not the naming of birds, wings outstretched across the morning, that makes us particularly human though they say and they say (and we live our lives by they says) that it is our language that gave us dominion over all – but language was not enough to do what we have done. words…
branch shadows darker than dust etch trees on the glass of the morning room, outside the stillness is shaped by birdsong and the billowing of spidersilk catching light. inside all but the cats are sleeping.
tattoos are forever they say yet she takes the flowering vine of her spine to her grave on skin much younger than mine.
the birds swallowed the moon. it sank – fell into the trees from the soft forest sky – corn yellow and full round it fell. the birds swallowed the moon this morning called their victory from the shadows and sang its rushing ocean beauty, bright nights and pulsing trees. the birds swallowed the moon…
this morning the coral tree is swarmed by white-eyes burying heads in giddy blooms up to their shoulders, gossiping and calling and laughing to one another, loud with first light – no time to wait for sunrise.
it took eons to get here step after step since the beginning of time and did we ever choose where we were heading or even know when time began because we can trace where we’ve been but not what we were thinking and it is not like we are here walking in the dark –…
birds of the sky when you come to weigh our hearts with a feather, let it be that we have learned more than what we can take from the world, more than we can hold on to with clever hands. let us not be weighed down by what we thought we should have been but…
today we lift a glass to his living walk the paths we had imagined together, a morning pilgrimage to greet the garden now you are just showing off he would say if he saw today’s poppies dropping paper casings unfolding yellow petals amongst an exuberance of vygies on his birthday – not that his…
we are all running away from ourselves aren’t we. seeing how many voyager miles or layers of comfort we can stack between ourselves and our own inevitable. it will find us in the end that sharp shadow scare fright wild self we have been hiding our longing for all the while it will find us…
aflame in evening light the red edged succulent reveals its translucent essence while sunbird on the bare bud branch combs a delicate beak through diaphanous wings. hand to the sun my fingers turn boneless – she sees me breath close and watching, pauses, but does not fly and all the while that late sun floods…