I’ve moved out (of school),
I’m moving in (to school).
My joke is that I’m having a ‘moving experience.’

Graduating college (3 days ago) was a dream come true
I’m starting a master’s degree in 7 days.
You have to admire the efficiency.

Do I have your permission to bear my soul?
I might have imposter syndrome.
I’m a harsh critic—of everything—but mostly me.

I’m over the romance and pressure of school.
I’m starting the romance and pressure of school.
Don’t worry, this isn’t hapless, sad girl literature.

Or a diary—it’s a portrayal of my inner life.
.
.
A song for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Messy by Lola Young [E]

if you stop writing

about me , will i

disappear?

will we be so quiet

no one will notice us,

any more?

the bear considered, thought

it may be nice.

.


paths narrow past the breadth of these long-travelled burdens across our shoulders



in the canyon

floods may come .



then
embroiled amidst the nimbus of our eyestains,
the road behind entombs itself in these    
    vibrant
      greys



[she sang to us from stones on fire :

          we, as they, clay

          we, as they, clay]

reading the line, moved the line
into a place of hedges, rural
contemplation.

not understanding the word,
we google and discuss.

so many connections, so
much came from nothing,
god particle, if god
is the word to use.

reading the line, we move
into a place of hedges, where
the wild things grow.

there the wild things grow.

quiet transformation
a flower unfurls

beauty of nature
mirrored beauty in souls

flowers are silent
speaking with other tongues

songs of the meadow
frolicking lambs and calves.

heady scent
a lovers touch

a yellow vase
bunched flowers

a drink of water
spiritual crystal

the veil is thin
love tokens lavished.

the sun spills warmth
across the countryside
and the flowers smile

waving their tiny leaf hands
to greet the new day

so I smile with whispers of love
as if the wildflowers are my children.

the elusive thrushes
hidden among the bowing willows

whisper sweet songs.

the tiny bird angels
not so far off.

those tiny angels

far from the silences that **** you inside.

seen in aberystwyth
lately, an other world.

away.

layers of paint,
wider crossings.

the man saw his father
in mirrors, helped
with tiny shoon,
helped with self
esteem.

it only took one
hour,
to blow
those cobwebs
away.

i met the story teller,
in the museum,
the street,
the place between.