the seeds, the trees

"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach

Cornfield

Last night I ran through a cornfield, barefoot and fearless – a savage dressed in flowers. I ran and the stalks turned to felt because I wanted them to, and when we kissed inside the spider webs, the spiders trickled down my back and I was not afraid because I didn’t want to be. It was easy.

Today, in sunlight next to water, I look at my bruised, defeated feet and scratch the spider bites with scratched hands.

“It’s too hard,” I say, afraid again of everything I can and cannot see,¬†and bury my broken feet in the sand.

Green leaves

That tree, that’s the greenest tree I’ve ever seen. I want to peel off my skin and be that green.