Writing

My family made of scraps

Garbage and hot glue

Lost and tired trash

Came together to make new

To others we are strange

A jumbled sort of mess

I met you in the Spring

Under aging oak

The world seemed to stop

Whenever you spoke

I met you in the Spring

Over shaded flowers

Why do you care?

It’s not even your fight

You’ve never had to suffer

From these people’s plight

What a strange thing to ask.

I am not a god / But the tales that spin from my /orb-weaver mouth flash, flash, / flash like the scales of the / spotted bass and the mud / between my toes is filled / with rich nutrients and the / alligator stalks the edge of / the riv

Once upon a time,

In a place not far from here

A kid composed a rhyme

That you really wanna hear

“Hello to the redwoods

Hello to the bees

there is nothing

as pure as

sitting

in near-darkness

soft fabric beneath you

and a fire dying by your side

feeling fat drops of salt water

course down your face