A disease that enters in late fall or winter
will heal in the long summer
The city below, and all the little lights
all the people's lives.
Up on a hill its easy to see
how I got to where I am.
Uncomfortable in the van
parked in the blocks
the old ancient trees
the old big homes
I can't tell if anyone is even inside
in the morning go for a run.
My hands shaking as I open the door
lack of sleep and living in loops of fear
resetting every week and not knowing whats real,
core shaken to the edge, not even knowing whether I'm alive or dead.
And up on the hill, a fir tree to sit beneath
Descent, descending, to ascend
(im)perfect teachers, met in the deep below
the water bubbled up from a thrown stone
into the blackness, heavy, alone.
Then river gravel and bright pebbles
dragging myself up the stream bank
I hear the song of a bird that sings just once a year
The song: crystalline spiral ascending
The sun bright and warm
The lap of something old, but new, yet worn
The most precious, myself, my thoughts
All this for me,
and mine alone.