POETRY
Cooked
Ring the dinner bell.
I'm done.
I'm cooked.
And I'm starving.
I stick in the knife and fork and slice
But as I bring it up to my mouth
I realize
Despite the overcooking
I am still raw inside
Choices and Habits
Choices become habits
When they stop being choices
When they start controlling
When you stop feeling the discomfort
Habits are just choices, all grown up with no discipline
Or too much discipline
Because enough choices in a row can make them reflexive
Routines become cages
But cages protect us
Cages keep us warm and shut out the fear
It's easier to climb inside
Than stand on the edge, much less open wings
When there's so much too lose
So much to trust
So much freedom to fly
It's easier to choose
To always stay inside
And keep the door shut
Until it rusts closed
And no more choices remain
Only the cage of your habits
Your comfortable patterns
That choke you to sleep
Sleep well.
The Wind
He drifts through her life like a season, unknowing and unseeing how his presence changes the temperature
Like the wind that does not feel or see itself
Like the wind that cannot be stopped or held or contained
She decides he's a warm wind, the kind that crawls up from behind the ocean's edge and paints over your skin
Shepherding the clouds, like sheep in the sky, with its playful song
Kicking up sand with its momentum
Tickling the leaves
Yes, he is a warm wind, one that shrouds you while giving you goosebumps
Almost touching you
If you close your eyes, you could almost be flying
It dances through your lungs and into your veins
It twirls back out your lips and beckons you to follow it
As it sinks back behind the dangerously deep edge of the water
Like a ghost
Only warmer, like a guardian angel
When the Leaves Fall But Do Not Change
When the leaves fall but do not change
Every year, the same collapse
The same story
One inch longer of growth, a few blossoms,
Then fall.
Some things refuse to change.
When the Leaves Change But Do Not Fall
It is time. It is fall, but the leaves refuse.
The cold air drinks up their moisture, leaving them crumbly.
The leaves turn yellow and red, like little flames.
In their near death, their colors glow brighter than ever, like it's their one last chance.
Like if they grow bright enough, they will survive the winter This time.
It is beautifully bitter to watch fall unfurl.
The leaves have changed. Other than having a similar shape, they are barely recognizable as their former thriving spring buds.
They are too busy beautifully dying to fuel any energy into building fruits or pushing out flowers.
The branches heave under the weight and shake with the wind.
Yet the stubborn leaves cling tightly, white-knuckled and resolute.
They do not want to let go.
The leaves change, but do not fall.
Time will bring them to the ground.