Wednesday, March 30

I almost forget to look up (even once) and see the hills

Monday, March 28

down the road and back at dusk for fresh air.
billows of airborne varnish wrap us in stink.

Sunday, March 27

shy hellebores

gently lifting the dark cup of a hellebore, her stamens pale green against the chocolate petals

Saturday, March 26

Friday, March 25

small tight scarlet peony buds promise luscious summery blowsiness

Thursday, March 24

towels and shirts and pillowcases show me the shapes of the breeze

Wednesday, March 23

spring

blossom blows past the window, and for a moment my brain thinks: snow

Tuesday, March 22

spring/winter

we sit outside in the first warm-enough sun of the year. we drink our tea. there is a small slug in the grass. kaspa pulls two white hairs from my head.

Monday, March 21

behind the rusted iron fence, red fallen leaves sink slowly back into the soil

Sunday, March 20

when we are safe, emotion breaks through like a spring of clear fresh water

Saturday, March 19

through the shrine room window

as we do walking meditation around the Buddha, we see Zen patting at a dead mouse with his paws

Friday, March 18

small splash of cream on the corridor floor. only a trifle.

Thursday, March 17

we walk around
around the pond
and then throw a ball
between ourselves.
everything
is
simple.

Wednesday, March 16

Tuesday, March 15

Monday, March 14

chanting

108 beads on my mala, round and round and round, getting closer and closer to the light

Sunday, March 13

moss blooming in the interstices, sock-you-in-the-eyes lime green

Saturday, March 12

Friday, March 11

C.S.I.

He makes a slit across the forehead and peels the face-skin away from the skull. This is not real. This is real.

Thursday, March 10

Wednesday, March 9

before evening service, waiting for people to arrive, we identify the two tick-tocks of two of the three clocks. time ticks on. we identify the third.

Tuesday, March 8

the orchid, forgiving me my neglect, magicks three dark buds

Monday, March 7

Sunday, March 6

silver miniature oak-leaf cuff-links, patterned with miniature veins

Saturday, March 5

in a coffee shop perched on the edge of the hill, the infinitely unknown space of the future opens a silence between us

Friday, March 4

the open window lets in traffic-noise, cold fast air, a clear view of the blue

Thursday, March 3

Wednesday, March 2

rosy sunlight falls on the hill. an uprooted tree has broken the fence. the sheep graze on, interested only in grass. we kiss by the gate. our boots squelch.

Tuesday, March 1

i hold space for others. later i dissolve and someone else holds space for me.