(tree pose.)

I do not like yoga.

But, outside my window, there is a magnolia tree

and I need the excuse to stand still

and breathe

and stare at the one last blossom hanging on to warmer weather,

longer days,

and the summer that brought me here.

This change, those seasons, swapping flip-flops for snow boots

and sunglasses for scarves,

reminds me that now, I am here;

I have been here for long enough to glimpse the season after summer,

and, the next season of my life.

And I smile, realizing, it is good.

This place, these walls, are mine,   

and that magnolia tree is close enough that I can pretend it is mine, too.

And I will be here the next time those white flowers blossom,

seasons later.

I have always wanted a magnolia tree.

I used to love yoga,

I do not anymore for a lot of boring reasons from seasons past,

but I have always wanted a magnolia tree,

and here,

in this moment where I set my gaze on the last magnolia of the season,

it is mine.

And it is good.

(unconditional.)

my whole life, I have come to altars, in awe of the feeling of love:

its gentle strength,

its profound simplicities,

and its ability to cover

what I considered my Multitude of Sins.

but recently, I have discovered

that nothing will bring you to your knees

like the first time you realize you are loved,

not in spite of yourself,

but rather, because of it.

(reflections, on love.)

there must be different kinds of love

for the different seasons of our life

(or perhaps,

for the different people

we become

as time

revises

what is written on our hearts).

while some may seek

ocean waves,

crashing against the shores of their souls,

it is a mistake

to underestimate

the quiet streams

that can quench a thirst

you did not know you had.

(I certainly wouldn’t want to offend you)

 your name in my mouth tastes bad
(like bile
and regret)
and your hand on my shoulder stings
like a slap in the face
(and I’ve enough experience with all these
to understand
exactly
what I am comparing you to)
and, no
I am not being dramatic.

If I were, I’d tell you that
even your kindness
is saccharine,
a cancer
that invades my brain
and makes me think things
and feel things
that I am too smart to think and feel,
and then
I’d point out that your voice makes me cringe
and consider 
ripping out my eardrums
to stop the sound
that you
are so
enamored
with.


So
in honor of not being dramatic,
read the first words
and forget 
the rest.

(parking lot poetry)

I pulled over in a parking lot

to frantically search for a pen

to write down a story

about the things

that make me remember

how much

I

love

you

when I realized I was at a church

and I smiled

and I thought

how perfectly, poetically

that describes

me and you.

You

have always led me back to God:

by the faith in your eyes,

the grace in your smile,

and the quiet strength that only comes

from holding Christ in you heart...

And,

of course,

in the way you laugh

when you say you love that I swear like a sailor

(just like you)

but still scold me

every time I say,

“goddamn.”

(car/crash)

I almost wrapped my car around a tree

because of a stop sign I did not see

because I was thinking about how there are so many things that I would hate

if I didn’t love them instead 

for reminding me of you.

And as my legs shook from shock

of how quickly I stopped

(the way they used to shake,

when they were wrapped 

around you),

I smiled and thought:

though I hope I don’t go anywhere

for a very

very

very

long time,

what better way to go

then happy,

if only by way of remembering

how happy

you

made

me.

(sometimes, I like to pretend that I am pretty tough.)

I will never forget the sincere shock in your eyes
when you saw through my charade
when your hand stopped on my shoulder
and I
blushed.