NOTES FROM A NEIGHBORHOOD WALK (8/14)

The world’s a microcosm of greenery. Such wonderful weeds! & birdsongs are confessions staining scarlet, mixed with a bluer nuance of knowing honesty to its core. Leaving before the sun leaves sky, both leaf & sky being very transparent things. I mean, everything’s transparent if taken literally. I mean, transparency’s a poem signed by some divine being, watching us replicate ourselves like amoeba & inkstain our existence on paper. I mean, here’s a metaphor: purple peach buds: my womanhood flushing rosy. A retrospective bloom of seeing myself unripe & too green to flower. Look. I’ve discovered it, what being a poet entails: naming things with the wrong names, cradling that fallen petal, that broken twig, bandaging it with words. Tasting the sweat under your arms, that heat, that bitter, bitter sap. Encapsulating a voice within a flower vein. I haven’t done it all, yet. I’m getting there. Returning home’s never the same as walking out, being etched in time, in the setting of a sun, in the rising of a moon. In continuation, soaked branches dripping with sunshine, in sundew, sundrops, sunfire, sticky sun-sweetness. In sweat. I’ll let it be, everything sun-touched & sacred: the sun as sun, word as word, & me as me.