i caught it in the net of my awareness like the yellow finch. it stayed calm. i held the net carefully, not to damage any feathers, to let it catch its breath, do WHATEVER it had to do, i knew not what.


murmurings of my father as he watched the rain from the kitchen. the same window where we watched a yellow finch the day he died.

day one of my blog

the needles, the forest floor
the iron filings cross and line up
the forest floor
the open fields
ruff and flatten
the matted hair, the deserted nest
last years home, not a peep
the rhythm of a life, all life,
whirling, whipping, going still
all of us, all of life revolving in our perfect ways
looking up

yes, you are right
we revolve around our eyes
our eyes don’t change
the eye of the spiral

our clothes slide in and out
our hair flies out and in
our mouths open and close
our brows arc, dive
the iron filings cross and line up
but our eyes don’t change
the eye of the spiral

looking up
as the seasons press past
as birth and death circle

looking up
saying i love you god
at least one of them.


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