Step One: Give Love and Your Garden Will Thrive, Right Down to the Roots

I need self love as if I have never pretended to understand the meaning of love before.
Toppled books, piling up  upon walnut shelves like I know the meaning of growing.
Growing a careful niche of green leaves and prepossessing blossoms behind rows of woody stems of rosemary.
Freshly pressed between the lungs  and I am trying not to breathe because trying to inhale a new satisfactory feeling of tenderness in this town lasts but a moment.
And it just isn’t enough time; enough time to revive warmth back into these hands so that I can grow too.
And confront all of the ways to simply not fall apart.
To trust myself in this body. I have been staring into this dull, ivory glint for several years like I know the meaning growing. 

Bury Me In Letters Like These

A Spin Off

I can’t bend my back like this for too long, not much longer. It begins to strain and ache.
My frail hands have left rosy imprints on my cheeks and my face is warm and wet.
I find myself resonating with Alred Stieglitz, from a piece only meant for two.
“What do I want from you? Sometimes I feel I’m going stark mad. That I ought to say,
“Dearest, you are so much to me that you must not come near me. Coming may bring you darkness instead of light and it’s an everlasting light you should live.”

Good God, I have found myself watching the sunlight drip over new leaves that twist like a kaleidoscope and there is something in the way that I move on. Someone once said that “things do not get easier because they get quieter.”
And I bet that you couldn’t imagine how I often long for storms in June.
I am composing a new kind of way to be. Planning ahead feels like sandpaper that ebbs and glides until I am flattened and numb.
The tail end of this does not fix me and the drives home do not become more subtle
And despite a curdled bust and a crystalized line down to my jaw
Just before the edge breaks – I am home. I am Georgia on a new train home.
To Alfred, from lost encounters of love, I am moving on too.

A Cycle: 13 Months

I can’t bend my back like this for too long. It hurts. My hands have left rosey imprints on cheeks and my face is warm and wet. If I didn’t respect my things, as much as I did yours, there would be much broken glass on the floor from that wall, there. The walls in my room, not yours. I could never go back to that apartment. There isn’t a bed I feel at home in anymore and I feel as if I am starting over, in April. This time, it is me at the end of the string and these somber outbursts continue, 1 year later. Simply knowing that your mind works in circles, circle around the shape of her breast, and hers, and those, there. There is nothing fulfilling about being an average woman. There is nothing beautiful about trying to be plain, simple. These decades are putrid and I am tired of yanking the chains on my ankles trying to keep up with that beautifully haunting line of half-dressed females over there. I don’t conform well to humans nor to the ways in which I should walk, speak, or wear. There is something you love about conformity, don’t you? Don’t be bashful – my tears don’t mean a thing to you. Ignore me, please. Continue. I have always felt relief listening to young men try to act different from their male counterparts- yet they follow the same script when they try. How old is that script now anyway? Mh. It must be at least 13 months old – if the time adds up right.

Fond of Cemeteries (in Autumn)

Dripping sunlight on monarchs while they race over the Rockies in October. Rugged leaves grazing over cemeteries during those silent Autumn months. A continual crack in the soil releasing pages of history and full, wispy spirits that spill out into the patient atmosphere. An endless calculation of the breaths once taken from the lines of mirroring white frames displayed by a single slate of stone. Once so obscurely unique and innocently tucked into colored identities built upon social expectations and historical formalities. Once living by questions and risks and wondering what this, right here, might be. The sound of feet walking across hollow acres of sliced grass, lying down bundles of fulvous blossoms to the condensed scripts of those who got away. Now off tiptoeing in the wind. A presence strolling through lavish gardens and sitting in at readings of literature and listening to music above outlaw field. A gentle, muted haunting off in the intervals of space, not quite where you think they would be. Life that has more to see than ostentatious, velvet lined walls – posed numb in a nameless chest.

Rusty Patched bumblebee listed endangered after habitat loss in U.S.

From Yahoo News Miami (AFP) – US officials for the first time have placed a bee found in the continental United States on the endangered species list. Authorities said Wednesday the move was taken after a precipitous decline in the rusty patched bumblebee population, due to pesticides, disease and climate change. These once common bumblebees […]

via Bee placed on endangered list after US habitat loss — sentinelblog

A Baby Boomer’s Hot Take on Millennial Activism: Matt Giles

There aren’t a lack of #hottakes on the internet that attempt to fashion some sort of correlation between millennials and previous generations, and how much of an impact the youngest demographic of voters have had on our political climate. This period of our country’s history will be a popular form of anthropological study years from now, as researchers study the protests and other reactions from both the left and right to the ascendancy of President Donald Trump.

via A Baby Boomer’s Hot Take on Millennial Activism — Longreads