Who am I?

Deer speak their mind on the rain-softened earth,

Dogs on the sidewalk; distinct little paws.

Wind will write volumes with clouds unsuspecting;
birds in formation politely respond.

I’d like to think snails go on feminist rants
inching ahead of their oppressive homes.

Permanence does not say much about quality:
I cannot claim more intelligence.

Who am I but an observer?
I’m not a writer, just  human.

Winter Afternoon

She says, “Close that infernal window.”

The air in here is as frigid as outside.

Is it so insane I need wind flowing through

to train my cheeks to blush again?

She sighs and I understand her frustration

but still hesitate to act.,

deciding, for once, to lie unwavering in my resolve.

To find solace in my bed own bed.

And choosing

to feel happy,

for once,

not guilty.

From my white linen cloud on floor seven,

I wander vicariously, in a yearning to get out

through voices below

searching for one I know will stand out among them.

When my own thoughts are the loudest I realize

this prophecy was never meant to be fulfilled.

“Close the window,” she repeats,

“Close the portal to that nostalgia,”

and I do.

In the silence I am left to face the only sound I had been trying to ignore:

The ticking of my wrist,

in perfect synchronization with
the ticking inside my chest.

Dorm Noodles

Step One: Remove plastic lid.

Warning: contents kept under pressure will release onto those in close proximity.

Step Two: Empty all contents from the package into bowl.

Let it buckle under the weight of your absurd melancholia.

Step Three: Microwave until sufficiently hot.

Let it rest in your hands until they are exhausted and numb.

Step Four: Add salt to taste. 

A recipe to keep your masochistic little hands busy 

while your mind wanders into dark spaces.

Step Five: Enjoy

life free from heartache.

Walk Home

Shaking my chocolate hair

raindrops fall like

sprinkles onto

ice cream.

Fighting apathy with apathy only builds a bigger flame

tempting as I shiver in the cold.

I will neither settle nor submit to sadness

because boys are so temporary.

I nod in agreement.

Old Friend 

Inspired by Dan Chiasson and Joanna Klink

Moonlit air freezes the words on my tongue

changing their essence as does happen seasonally.

I remain silent in fear that Wind wants them for itself

to scatter carelessly across this desolate plane.

Dressed up in white, Old Friend crosses my field,

eyes burning with intelligence beyond my own capacity:

two flickering candles which embody the restlessness

of a vagabond unsure where it will sleep.

He moves against an unforgiving winter,

a grace of feeling I could hardly believe:

a sense of peace so deep I extend out my hands,

left instead clinging to the ghostly sound of snapping twigs.

Four ephemeral seconds blanketed in reverberation.

What better witness than this observant snow?

A minute to record in thick volumes of history,

its only permanence an empty thoroughfare and me.

Distinct lanes of footprints measure in vain

the ingredients that could never recreate such tranquility.

I embrace newfound solitude, for it is not real:

I have a euphoric coffee brewing which too

enters my winter mug and I am awake.

It tastes of dusk and stars and snowflakes because I know

You were here once. You will be here again.