Grand Rapids, Michigan is a beautiful city. In the fall, there’s an art festival that takes place throughout the streets and plazas.
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The town was built off the Boardwalk, overlooking a sliver of the Pacific that always looked like a postcard.
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Before the turtle years —
the chrysalis years, the metamorphic years, the churning years — I stood in my garden of good and evil,
There is a lore, a legend, a story,
Passed down for years, and still in its glory.
The air sits hot and heavy
sleepy and dreamlike as the early autumn night.
Can I be measured
Can I be weighed
Music poured out onto the rainy streets, the clack, roll, and tumble of the drums suspended in the air like cooling magma.
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At a camp in Union, Maine,
Behind the cream-colored canvas tents a
Circle of campers exchange candy-stripes and vees,
Reviving a world lost to winter months
The sun begins to smile again.
I have trouble throwing things away.
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Two lovers sit and stare, not a word spoken.
The small city apartment, starting to get smaller and smaller.
A man in charge of women’s rights,
Before women are allowed to govern themselves.
What a strange thing it is indeed,
To be so far gone you don’t know
If you’re right back where you started.
I like to imagine my introversion as a cat
It curls around me when I’m feeling lonely
And sits in my lap as I read a book
In fields where dreams are sown like seeds,
We dance on earth that holds our feet,
light falls through the window
over her on the step
she knocks and steps in