flowing

sometimes, gratitude is a blanket
wrapped around my body
in the form of letters, these treasures
from my roadmap of life

but if i don’t consider from where i’ve come,
how can I move forward?
direction is only relative to a starting point

i think of the snowmelt
the freeze and thaw;
the process that leads to
flowing

and i can hear the wailing, always
as much in my own gut as the
graveyard nearby

but the strength of water suggests that
freezing and thawing are
a necessary part of life

that resilience is not weight,
but water,
flowing

-A

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awake

on a sunny thursday morning, walking along the sandy bank of the river
i stopped to watch a small wasp, no larger than the dime in my pocket
dig a hole in the sand
grain by grain

and on a chilly tuesday evening, walking along the spine of the sangre de cristos at sunset
i stopped to watch the hundreds of thousands of bats, each as big as the palm of my hand
fly into the night
one by one

i feel tears sting my eyes and roll slowly down my cheekbones
gathering at my chin

there is no name for what i am feeling
but as if the sun and moon were rising all at once
i can hear each of my fragile perceptions
shatter

and i am in awe
not of beauty
not of the color or texture
or rushing river water or sunset

but of purpose
of movement
of rhythm

of witnessing the earth do
as it needs to

on a misty friday morning, laying in my sleeping bag in the dewy, grassy meadow
i hear an elk bugle in the distance
as if to greet the morning sun

here, or there
with eyes open, or closed,
i am awake

-A