every year
when the seasons change
and the dogwood loses
its flowers
i wonder if it will bloom
again next year.
an ice storm
broke the center branches.
they are so fragile now.
in the heart of it
they reach upwards
bending strangely from the
damage caused.
early in the spring
when it is as bare and
bleak as the world
around it
i sigh and say,
‘maybe i’ll
have to cut it down
this year.’
a few weeks later
the buds form
and the leaves turn
into rich green.
then the blossoms explode
and the center
is covered
hidden from the world.
in this moment i forget
that i ever
considered cutting it
down.


For Jeremiah

(It has been one year since my breakthrough in France. For months after the experience, I referred to it as two things, 1) a breakdown and 2) an incident. Neither of these is how I view it now. It is a breakthrough. At the time, this was impossible to see, naturally. It was the most horrifying experience of my life. Even months afterward, I was disturbed and rattled by the events. I am aware now of what I witnessed, of what was presented to me. That which I cannot put into words, that which only appears in dreams and visions, speaks to me of such knowledge. Thus, the reason I regard it as an experience. I needn’t go into a lengthy explanation of why, as I am sure that it is evident. For a long time, I worried that another “incident” would occur. After my return from France, I had a chronic worry, an almost tingling sensation that another breakdown was just moments away. As the months passed and my perception shifted, I began to realize how powerful all that came to pass was. The doors had been opened; and it is now an experience that I hold sacred.)

i fold my energy around myself
embracing my being
i go within

i left something in france
in those mountains
deep in those mountains

who will i be
if i am no longer jeremiah

shedding layers
from autumn
to winter
to spring

i held on
there is such safety even in pain
i wanted to return to him
to bring him back

what would i be
who would i be

a twilight voice said

you will be you without being me
you will hold you and only you
of you you will be
for you you will be


it was in the new year that i awoke
sometime in the early hours
in the dim light i opened my eyes
and saw myself
i witnessed myself

i am no longer jeremiah

though i insisted

come with me
i can’t be me without being you
who will i be without being you


again the twilight voice spoke

you will be you without being me
you will hold you and only you
of you you will be

for you you will be

in the dim light of the new year i finally awoke
in the early hours i opened my eyes
and i saw myself
i witnessed myself

i am no longer jeremiah

i no longer horde
the berries from my youth
those i would once gather
in the springtime
to savor
in the coming months
and coming years
i now enjoy them
in the moment
sitting in the berry patches
under the gentle strength
of the spring sun

the trees are covered in ice

it is early morning

the air is frigid

the day will warm

and the ice will melt

the trees are covered in ice

it is early morning

the air is frigid

the day will warm

and the ice will melt

the trees are covered in ice

it is early morning

the air is frigid

the day will warm

and the ice will melt

it continues

and continues

i wonder if our souls
speak different languages.
would your soul
recognize mine?
i want to see yours.
i awake
with this desire.
in the stillness of the night
i let mine call out,
come to me”,
it says,
we can hold this,
we can love this
.”

there is a
field
the crops passed
many seasons
ago
here and there
saplings have
sprouted
some thick
with seasoned
bark
from many
winters
around the field
is a stone
wall
it is
crumbling
and lost among
moss
and bramble
and small trees
that have found
their way
to the light
shooting up around
the stones
woven amongst the
rocks
hanging from
rotting
fence posts
and tangled up
in the
long grass
is rusted
barbed wire
camouflaged
against its
surroundings
it catches clothing
and
snags skin
leaving rust stained
lines
within flesh
as a
reminder
of its presence
the field is
all but
inaccesible
one can only
look on
through the various
seasons
and wonder about
the crops
that were once
planted
there many years
ago
one can only
look on
at the trees
that have leapt
up now
left
to their own
way
to their own will
without plow
or foot
to disrupt
them