bare roots and mycelium
spans of trees
with wrinkled epithelium
lungs breathe in and now exhale
weight me here

stormy skies and sun and spire
point up to the spirit man
cleanse our souls of muck and mire
root my anchor
drop me here

bare my feet and feel the soil
stand firm ground and find it solid
acquiesce the need to toil
sit me down
my home is here

flotsam jetsam

When your constellation is not as it seems
it should be; like
it is for others, who speak of us and we
but don’t include me. Yet together they are
aimless, like flotsam drifting
on pulsing wavelets, further and further
out into the vast nothingness and
forever into the further
until it all breaks apart

…seems like we are drifting further and further apart.