"I can't eat these"

she said
pushing the plate back from her place--

as though the biscuits were somehow
to blame for
the giddiness
and the tired feeling
in her stomach

all the pennies in the world
won't catch her breath
or releive the pressure
at the base of her skull

her skin is dry
with the change of the seasons
and soon
the tears will want to come
but they are gathered in the brace of pheasants
and attached to the fallen tree outside

true

"No, you shouldn't. you
should always be by My side."

This where i belong.

i am happiest when time compresses
and You hold me
toy with me
and are stern
because You know it is what i need.
Only You can take me there
because You are unafriad to understand who i am.

and
then time relaxes
when i walk out of the door
and down the stone steps.

It is suddenly three in the morning

and the alarm will sound in two short hours.

Then i will be mama, daughter, sister, friend, worker:
all business and strength and love and happiness (different happiness)

and i have to wait ...
until it is dark
and the house is quiet
for Your understanding
which sets me free.

love letters

two parallel tracts
binary
one on and one off

and like the old game
"one always tells the truth; the other always lies"

perhaps both are in superposition
vibrating and stationary
with all the accompanying motion sickness
no longer will the wave function collapse upon viewing,
forcing you to be in one place at a time

instead
you are the quantum super hero

nervous, nauseous, headachy
split apart and reglued and theoretical

"My dear love,

the golden thread

"I want to hang this back up; can you untangle it"

She took the mobile
and sat in the rocking chair
fiddling with the long strands
of golden thread
trying to work out
the tiny knots
without breaking them.
She put it down

and later, picked it back up
and kept trying
and trying
sitting at the kitchen table
in her pajamas.
But the knots were little
and T.I.G.H.T.

and wrapped around each other.
She put it down

and later, picked it back up.
She decided to try starting with the silver
thread from which the mobile hung
tied in three knots around the wooden ring.
The thread thin and delicate and shimmery
and impossibly tangled
with the golden thread.
She put it down

and later picked it back up
continuing to weave the thread and fairies around each other
but succeding in only making it more impossible
to hang properly.
She put it down

and later, picked it back up
turning it over and over
watching where the thread was looped
moving the fairies
one over the other.
She put it down again

and later, picked it back up.
She took out her shears
and cut all the strings.

dirty feet

the watering wand
kicks up the dirt
to tiny droplets
that land on her feet

out in the garden beds
barefoot
and happy
sinking into the loose earth
picking pieris rapae
off the broccoli leaves

trelissing the
cucumbers - tendrils
grasping string and stake
male flowers like orange snow

training tomatoes
with tan kitchen twin

inspecting the nibbled
leaves of cauliflower
and the beans (the poor
little beans)
barely a chance to grow maintenance leaves

"the beans will grow up to the sky"
says the 4 year old with her arms stretched and fingers wide
like in her story book

her feet are dirty too.

quantus!

it's the small things
that dig at the back of the brain

working before you even know
they are working

you get rubbed smooth
and glassy
down to pebble size,
thankfully

it's a way of looking
through the wrong end of the microscope
that can save you in the end
before you are finally
ground to dust

and flow
like a viscous collection of ants
over the surface tension
of the world.

yes.

"This is a confessed aged."

"To whom?"

"Why did I say yes, again?"