Poetry

Funny, the stupid things I remember.

I never remember the important stuff,

Like addresses or birthdays

Or parties or hangouts

Or last names.

But I remember my second grade teacher's dogs were Rachel and Quimby

birdsong woke us at five a.m., the washed-out dawn

altogether too bright. wake-up bugle wasn't til eight, time spent

rolling over and over listening to the screen doors slam.

it rained the night of our arrival -

big, whooshing gasps of whitewashed rain & thunder that

shook heavy against the darkening skies. dinner went long.

we only sang louder, deafening echoes beneath the storm as

I love you.

I know that’s just me

And you

And there are hundreds

Of millions

Of haters

Of hated.

But I love you.

But you’re my best friend.

I love you for phone calls

the air tastes like honey and promise 

sticky with the scent of blooming jasmine 

and freshly cut grass that crunches beneath bare feet 

the sky drips blue 

stretching wider every afternoon 

"Life isn't about finding yourself.

Life is about creating yourself."

Said the big chalkboard on the wall

In that gym lined with red mats

And chairs and chairs and chairs

I'll never forget

I am delicate,

not fragile,

please handle me as such.

I was crafted,

perfected,

but I will crumble under your touch.

I am easy to break

because I am not meant to be broken,

I found myself in the things I love

In the music I listen to

In the books I read

In the posters on my walls 

I found myself 

In my favorite drink

In going to the beach

In writing poetry 

When I got home

After those two days

Passed by much too fast

And then they were gone

And I was changed forever

When I got home

I remember

I cried and cried and cried

From longing

I've been asked a lot,

If you had one wish what would you wish for?

Blowing out candles on a cake,

What did you wish for?

Blowing the seeds off a dandelion,

What did you wish for?

I wish 

Some call it “just kicking a ball”

but I call it

a part of my soul,

my heart.

A part of 

who I am.

On the field,

Beautifully complex

Yet seemingly simple

It flows from fingers and mouths

It flows from metal and wood

It floats on the breeze

Swaying the leaves in the trees

A bow on a string