The sky whispered lies yesterday
screamed a false blue
aqua like a Scandinavian soup
bowl, rimmed in yellow.
The birds, feathered messengers
of fear
shivered.

I write pages in my head,
my pen never touching down.

Last night I read somewhere,
“Read a thousand books
and your writing will flow like
a river.”
My heart feels like a lake,
Bottomless, metallic, and
hungry.

Sometimes I hear voices in feathers.
Crows write words in the sky,
like graceful quills
that embroider the dome with
loopy cursive.
Elegant reminders of
my own clumsiness.
Etch
verbs that I cannot decipher
without beating wings.
They scream a dialect
I cannot remember.
I fumble for the searing syllables.

It is no use.
I
cannot
caw.

Once I kissed a boy until
I realized his mind was empty
I could never love him
He did not know enough
words.
He could not describe how blue
the sky was and his insides did not
ache for the vibrant shade
of green the sky turns
after it rains.

I felt alone,
even when he clutched my hand.

Feverishly, I composed line-after-
line in my journal.
I was convinced I would rather
be alone.

My heart does not trust
Forests
where no trees grow.

~Amy
September 27, 2012

Another snowshoeing jaunt that left me mesmerized with our own backyard. Is there anything ever as beautiful as the land you toil over and dream into being?

I guess our phone upgrade was well worth the extra monthly charge. These photos were captured at dark – charged by only a segment of moon. Technology is amazing!

I often ask my students to write a letter to their “younger self.” I write that letter in my head every day.

Be patient.

You will find your forest and your home.

All the words are there.

Trust that he knows them by heart.

Home is a verb –
A garden
A place where your soul rests and awakens
invents a new language.
A place of potential and possibility.
💚

If you need proof, open your eyes.

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