I'll miss the trees
or, I should say,
I'll miss the dappling light hitting my cheeks
shade filtered through varying Sassafras leaves.
I'll miss the Japanese Maple in my parents' front yard
who once offered herself to my imagination—
a childhood plaything, a friend.
Not all quite so nice,
barefoot stepping on Sweet Gum's spikes
will I masochistically miss even her? the familiarity?
Certainly, the Dogwood too,
the Chistological imbued in her blood,
which runs through my hometown.
It's time I become acquainted with new birds, new stones, new trees.
A new life, syllogistically,
to find and make mine.

who am I?
no dramatic moment of levitation
nor sudden illumination,
I'm not like those other women
and I'm not very brave

epiphaniless: I sink and drown
I'm losing my self
who am I?
poet-*****-fool-idealist-joy-stricken-struck
sometimes I feel I'm just a girl

there are still bright moments of passion
flickering bursts of hope
where stars' edges reach down, pierce
but not myself or most myself, I'm not sure

I like stepping into the foggy extraterrestrial
but life is mostly earthbound
and I am mostly lame
merely reflecting a rare ingenuity
not mine own, but Hers

if Earth's crammed with heaven,
my public library may be a beatific vision
     an everlasting pillar of social good
     which transcends capital greed
     loving my neighbor
     and the neighbor I'll never know
     and the neighbors gone before me
the gay bar downtown might too be a slice of something holy
     a place of Midwestern repose
     filled with a spirit of revolutionary, radical love
     What would Jesus do?
     don't forget to tip your queens
     and don't forget to break bread with the other
my university's English department certainly seems divine
     with liberal arts professors like saints
     the academia militant
     a clear path towards edification
     maybe even a touch of proselytizing
     all in the name of something undeniably sacred
gardens, enchanted woods, and unfettered wilderness
     all God-filled in their own right,
but too the fettered, man-made spaces
     the decidedly human: empyrean

soft rolls of hot steam
     a billowing thurible
     humming on my kitchen's stove
     breathing life and settling like dew within me
something sacred laced in earl grey
     honey in the desert,
     with toast in the morning
     sweet, slow, and hot
inherently communal, triune
     my hands wrapped round—
     the clay my great uncle once spun
     holding its entrancing lotus flower
divinity resting within me