There is nothing wrong with

wearing ribbons in your hair and

twirling in your plaid uniform skirt and

dressing like a tomboy sometimes and

refusing to let anyone tell you not to

wear your heart on your sleeve;

nothing wrong with scars and

sparkly eyeshadow and

throwing a football in the backyard;

nothing wrong with changing your mind and

changing styles and

who you think you are, acting

slightly different when you wear khakis 

instead of a skirt to school;

you're

still you, and

you'll always wear it

on your sleeve.

It's a tree,

A plain old Apple tree,

So why does it mean so much to me?

The apples aren't normal, 

They're mostly rotten,

But the tree,

That apple tree,

It brings me peace,

Shade, 

And quiet away from the chaos of the world,

And I can be myself,

I've known the tree since I was 9,

So that's only four years,

But that to me is forever,

That tree has heard lots of stories, 

And it's heard my pain,

And what I've wanted to be,

From a police officer to a Marine Biologist,

But a shout out to the tree,

The tree that brings me peace,

Thank you. 

And that tree, 

I want to mention your beauty quickly,

Your bark may be old,

But it's beautiful,

You may be small,

But you are strong.

Dedicated to The Apple Tree in my backyard.

In the early morning I wake. I dress silently and slip out of my sleeping bag. I slowly unzip the tent flap, trying to let my tent mates sleep. The morning air is cold and biting, and a deep fog encases everything around. Scott and Asa are already awake, like always. The ground is soaked from last night's dew. Someone left a shirt out, and now that’ll never dry. I walk quietly to an old wooden picnic table at the edge of the campsite. I look out over the river bank to the wide, flowing Connecticut river. This is the life I tell myself. The water rushes by in a meditative way. I watch a leaf fall from a tree. It lands in the water and I watch it until it flows out of sight. A wedge of ducks glides across the water on the far side. The world around me is still. It is almost as if it is holding her breath. I sit for what feels like eternity, waiting, watching, feeling the earth's heartbeat beneath my feet. I don’t get to do this often, so I absorb all of the peace I can. Slowly my little world breaks down. Others begin to stir and wake, and Scott sings his song. 

Oh, I like to rise when the sun she rises

Early in the morning

And I like to hear them small birds singing

Merrily upon their laylums

And hurrah for the life of a country boy

And to ramble in the new mowed hay

The sun breaks through the fog and the camp becomes a nest of activity and movement. We have another 20 miles to go today. That’s a different kind of meditation. Tomorrow I will wake and enjoy my little world of peace and solitude. I only have so many mornings left. Until then I whisper into the soft wind, until then.  

It’s formed by rocks,

Which undergo weathering.

It’s what dunes are made of,

Mounded by the wind.

It’s spread on a beach,

Admired by passersby.

It’s walked on,

With footsteps imprinted onto it.

It houses turtle eggs,

Allowing them to seek solace.

It smooths sea glass,

Rounding edges.

And it drains in an hourglass,

Measuring time.

Are we like sand?

America, the beautiful place of the free.

Where people from everywhere come to see,

to speak and love and create with others.

To live and laugh with our brothers and sisters.

The ICE Age comes testing our strength,

Our bloody history repeating to a length,

Will our bonds tighten with the pain?

Or will they collapse under the strain?

I say, end the ICE age!

When I was a little younger than I am now, 

I went home after school and wrote until bedtime.

That was enough to take me into the stratosphere. 

I'd play in the cloud for hours and hours.

I'd wait under lamp posts made out of adjectives and line breaks.

Calvino's cities were real; I could see them clearer than he could. 

That's not enough anymore.

My imagination gets weaker every day.

I need more - 

To be deconstructed so that I am a pile of words laying on the floor, 

Waiting to be rearranged into something new,

Something more beautiful than what I am now.