i spent many of my years barefoot, running atop pine needle carpets. the rains have started. it's thanksgiving dinner, celebrated weeks early. i come a few hours before dinner to do my laundry, and to wander the trails, keeping my eyes out for the familiar fungi of this time of year.
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| hailstones, little brown mushrooms, and thunder. these are the novembers of my childhood. |
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| running from the thunder |
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| the canyon after the storm rolls out |
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| the manzanita and pine hills are as comfortable to me as my mother's lap when i was small. |
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| dissipated thunder head. |
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| in his tiny voice: do i look like jengo fett? |
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| inside, the epitome of cozy |
exploring shadow, considering everything i have called into my life,
the ways old old dreams come true without even noticing.
divorce is final.
an ode to my marriage is brewing,
the photos can haunt.
the sunrise on the spiritual horizon is bright---
acceptance of self and the recognition of self;
i feel like myself.
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