Saturdays in November

no fanfare
but small things

like you singing your favorite song to me
and us lying with the cat in between
and me insisting we should have turned there
and you laughing as we walk the wrong way

one hand is clutching warm tea
and the other is holding yours
and the world around us is shining golden and brown
and the birds overhead are surrounded by a perfect blue

I think I know this feeling
though I’ve never used the word

-L

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truth

the hard cliff
is the truth jutting out
to meet me

i climb it
rocks fall, erode
beneath my feet

(standing on solid ground
has always been
overrated, anyway)

but what do i hope to see at the top?
each climb, the view is
different

sometimes hazy, clouded ridgelines
sometimes stormy, distant clouds
sometimes, pink and purple sunsets

the truth is not a word, or phrase
not etched into stone or paper

the truth is in the lines on my palms
the cracks in the rocks
the expressions in the sky

ever-changing, ever-shifting

begging for me to
witness

-A

only mountains and valleys

she asks me about him
and if i’m going to marry him
and i laugh it off easily but

i want to know why
everything
literally everything
has to have
a tidy box to
reside in

lately i have to ask,
is something not important
or valuable unless you
marry it?

can we find value in things
as they are, as they develop
as they unfold
and change?

i can’t see in black and white
and there are so many dimensions to
being alive

i used to run along the cow pasture
my lungs burning in the cold winter air

i used to huddle under my blankets
my lungs breathing in my own stale air

i am both of these,
at once

i mean, there is no box
for me

only mountains and valleys

-A

At Great Sand Dunes National Park

The smell of campfire
Still lingers in my hair
As the wind swirls it across our faces.

We sit low between the dunes to hide from the wind.

“Will we ever recover fully from heartbreak?”
I don’t know.

But I hope that we remember bonding like sisters covered in sand
For longer than we remember the many ways in which our hearts were broken.
And I hope that if those memories must stay longer
Than the smell of smoke in my hair after two washes
Then so does this moment.

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the space between

there are things about me
that are more interesting
than whether or not he thinks
i’m pretty

or if he thinks about me
at all

i am made up of more than
pretty, more than
delicate, more than
these ideas that
fence me in

my muscles, my bones are
my own
belong to no other
than me

everywhere they have
brought me and
will bring me

standing alone on hazy mountain peaks
tending to the soil in lonely valleys
driving on my own towards something
unknown

and though i get caught up in
walls and fences
even build them on
my own

i know that
my worth is in
my hands, arms,
feet, spine

or not in these,
but rather, in
the space between

-A

Natural

she told me:
it ebbs and flows

today I observed two monarchs
in someone else’s garden
and I thought about calling you
but I decided to keep it to myself

(you laugh when I tell you the moon is my favorite celestial body
but I think you understand
because your favorite part of our weekend
was driving home in the twilight
when the sky was deep blue and silver
and the countryside dark and still)

so today I choose to observe alone
but I know that maybe tomorrow
when the cold wind brings me nostalgia
I will tell and you will listen
even if you do not fully understand

-L