Falling in

Yellow leaves swamping the driveway
quick hikes in the setting sun
and cool nights reading about the west
boil a feeling that makes me want to
rip out my hair and
leave marks in the wall
grab on and hold tight
until it lies still as a rotten stump


But I see wheat hair
lake-clear eyes
legs strong living branches
voice an energetic wind
words staggered as an outcropping


I fall into the feeling


your hands on my face


fingers like twigs pulling at my hair

and sink into you like quicksand

More afraid of letting go than falling

in

Vines

Vines. I am like a vine. I do not grow straight up. I learn to lean on others to reach my place in life; I try not to destroy these objects which I lean on. I just wrap around them and climb. I don't necessarily know what I want right away, so much of my time is spent winding my way through ideas until I choose a tall live one for climbing.

Sometimes I sprout many leaves of thought, and other times it's only a beautiful flower or two, without much in terms of body. I am very talented at writing flowery metaphors and scenes, but sometimes this skill is a hindrance, as it can make it difficult to get my thoughts across.