Rooted

I spotted pink flowers on the windowsill

of a stalwart high-rise apartment.

They might be carnations, blushing

when my eyes fell upon them.

There were four or five

different distances apart,

all leaning comfortably in line,

nudging each other for support.

But not reliant as I might be.

Their bouquet glowed in its row

even when plucked.

I’m envious of their freedom.

Then there are those dogwood petals detached

by the breeze that rolls them along my street;

collected into wheel-wells and sewer slats.

Those might be more like me.

It’s not easy to grow alone,

since the rain can drown us,

or have the confidence to know

how lush dependence looks.

Kalaloch

Certainly no one ends up here by accident.

Sliding across rolling pines and conifers

Yellow dotting of these wildflowers

that I lack confidence to label

all orchestrate one great surprise for me

Fumbling through a discordant note in this sonata

The green tumbles down into fine grain sand and blackened

petrified wood

that the ocean could not stomach

The stalwart evergreen acres spit out into an ancient place

whose horizon touches my earlobes

And every head shaped dot across the haze

Is another conspirator in this secret

I register an unearned connection

in a crescendo through my blood

I can feel the ridges of my veins that sit in a normal

suburban body

But it’s a body that sits on an extraordinary seaside campsite

Where I am granted the right to pitch

a bright yellow tent

and love a fire

I do not think that I ended up here by accident.

The Seafoam Motel

is a Comfort Inn now.

Tumbleweeds of fluffed sea green,

prance up the shoreline

towards weak knees.

Wind rides

through their stringed capillaries,

and splits them into peace.

There are no politics in this decision.

Disintegration is not loud.