What if you fell in love with yourself?
What if the sight of you made
your own heart rate rise?
What if you got lost in the
depths of your own eyes?
What if you couldn’t wait to come
home to yourself at night?
Could sit for hours by your own side?
What if alone with you is where
you really longed to be?
To explore the depths
of your own mysteries?
What if I told you that I am you
and you are me?
To fall in love with yourself is to
fall in love with everything.
What does my dog think about
out by his doghouse all day?
What dog thoughts fill his dog
head? Is his dog mind blank
until a sound, scent, squirrel
or bird interrupts his reverie?
Or does he think of me
and await the hum
of my car coming
down the lane.
Or is it all
the same?
Ah, Spring!
You elusive little thing,
glimpses of green
slipping between
my frozen hands,
singing,
“Winter!
Winter!
Catch me if you can!”
And all of the chaos
collapses into one
move on the board, one
moment in time,
all the writhing world of trouble,
into one small plot of ground,
one weed to pull,
one seed to plant, one
flower to smell,
one moment in which
to put all of your care
into this one little thing,
because every piece contains
the whole, every move contains
the entire game.
She’s a passing summer shower,
a breeze that loosens
the autumn leaves,
a warm spell that melts
the midwinter snow,
the return of the robins
in spring.
And I imagined the sun
through the trees
expanding, and me
realizing that finally
the sun had exploded
and now was about to
consume everything,
including me.
And that’s OK, I thought.
It’s beautiful,
this explosion
this destruction,
this resolution,
this ending
and becoming.
Plants in pots. Who says
they weren’t meant to be?
You and me live just fine
in houses and beds,
transplanted from forests
and tipis.
And who’s to say the
philodendron wasn’t calling
to me at the greenhouse the
other day,
when the rain dripped through
the old panes
and splattered on the packed
dirt floor.
We all live in container worlds
and we’re always thirsting
for more.
The universe is writing
a poem today
with raindrops falling on frozen ground
and pain that never seems
to stop until death. But we effervesce.
This carbonated world paints
itself new with every breath.
As I watched, another
leaf fell free of its
attachments, floated
down, joined the others,
littering the ground.
Fell free of all the
imagined importance
that had filled its green
veins all summer long.
Free to fall in
feather
flight slumber
in autumn
light, unencumbered
by it all.
Kosmosis 
I heard them laughing outside
the window as I tried to
meditate. I could hear them
but faintly, like a fading
childhood memory. And it
came to me: through empathy
these women could be as much
a part of me as the me
of every faint memory
that I never hesitate
to call my self, and that I
can feel what they feel as much
or more than what I often
consider to be within
the clear boundaries of me.