To know the place where thunder blows
What I want is to know away—somewhere beyond the place Icarus
could reach with his waxing wings,
below the place of the plummet and fall
where the spirit wraps its breath in leaves and ember.
Learning to be, to trap myself in powder specks,
and be again, shaped like a thimble prick to dreams—
a thousand waking thoughts of things to come,
the places where I have been, where I am from.
Learning again to breathe heavy and deep.
Where dragons roll with the clouds, where fire
cools the skin, not room enough for pain—
where all things learn to breathe, and breathe, and breathe again.
Day four: poem to the inner child
To the child divine and wondrous
Oh, little plum, why have you forgotten how to dance?
You used to swing and sway with the best of them,
drop to your knees and spring.
You knew the rhythm of rain, shared its sambic cadence.
What did you want to be, once?
When you grew up, a star, a creek bed, a thunderstorm
rolling over everything just to be known.
How you used to roar.
Fierce and strong, like holding back was cousin to death.
When anything was possible.
Catching fireflies and holding them
close to your chest in jars, knowing
only you could keep their light safe until morning.
Pinholes of air, you gave to everything—
grasshoppers and butterfly kisses
planted diligently on cheeks,
because this, you knew, was enough.
Somewhere you dropped your inner seed, and now you know—
the worst thing is to root.
Holler and howl, only once. Then whisper, for years—
let me out. Please, please, let me out.