Disneyland.

Sometimes I imagine we fall into a pocket of an old winter coat
accidently, midsummer,
and get lost for a little while.
Sometimes longer than others if the weather takes a while to turn;
But eventually we are found again.
by somebody.
Needing a good coat for a windy day. (accident or not, you decide.)

And we re-emerge back into time; coat-pocket hair being a little messy, we brush it over with our hands and blink in the sun's reflection off the snow.
"funny," is said when we are seen, "That girl is in sandals, and where are her mittens?"



A new place to appreciate

There is no title here.

Do you remember the canyon that serves as the backyard to my house?
There is a creek, there is a glade, there is a cliff of clay and fallen trees.
My friend once said that was the last place he really felt like a kid. Felt like a real kid.
Well that  felt like a compliment, to me. (Though truthfully I have no bearings on what effect the backyard has on people; it is it's own entity.)

And so I believe that is why I sat out there tonight, summoning an entirety apart from myself. The black had fell again - so a wall of feeling drips into the canyon with the evening - removing the scenery and leaving what I mentioned months ago: wild glory, simple authority.

Something that scares me nightly. But tonight in particular I sat with my back to the house, the lights my dad left on throwing my shadow over the porch and out onto the wall of dark. My heart wasn't racing like I expected it too during that confrontation. It was 3 am and my mind was clear. I sat that way without moving for a long time - I felt my slow breaths.

"You need to take time to ask God for things, Lyndsay. It's okay to ask. It shall be given, and I really don't think he is referring to material possessions at this point. You are knit together and set apart. Ask."

If you are a bear...

...then I am a deer.

My alarm is set for six a.m.

A myriad of things;
baking bread and whispers.
a thousand cliches counted as my own
setting apart and dropping out
out of the race
for time
distance,
place.
first third fourth fifth.
I would never know how to spell fifth if it wasn't for spell check.
Is spell check created for me or I for it?
medicinal mysteries wrapped up in commit
to yearly check-ups and daily routines
brush brush brush

please.

Bianchi

Before I knew her I heard about her. She was born in Eastern lands but French blood ran in her veins. She was new movement in an old frame; people turned there heads when she went by. To the store, to the school, she turned over distance to the minutes, they slowly ate her up. 

When she was born They called her by a name, emblazed their words on her side. "Words of Love.." She thought. This she showed to the world, belly up and soft side out. "She's really going places now," They said, "There, that is the look of the New Age, and we want everyone to know - we want them to know we made her who she is." So They sent her to America, because that is the place where all examples for the new age are sent. The ideas, though, trickle in too fast and pool at the door, they create a mess in the winter time, look sloppy in the spring - the americans in new york complain; "We are up to our heads in talent, Our toes in innovation!"

So this is where ideas go to get stuck.

And there she stayed, I hear, for years. The rains came, and went, and came again. The words of love She kept carefully displayed on her side began to peel off, letter by letter. With rain comes rust. A thing like her, made to move, was forced to sit. I am told that when someone is made to do a certain thing in life, they must do it or they risk a pile-up in the soul. Let the poet write! This I am told. 

I found her in a corner of America; hiding her belly, hard side out. She's beautiful, I thought. "She's not worth it," They whispered, "Those words of love aren't ours any longer. You can't un-rain the thunderstorms that have let loose over her head. There is damage there, and oh, the baggage!" 

She can't be more than 20 pounds soaking wet, I thought. I guess thats baggage I can deal with. I approached.
"I'm an old idea," She warned me, "I'm just steel in an aluminum world."

"But you were made to move," I said, my eyes looking down. "All you need is new shoes."

She was beautiful; "My name," She said, "is Lorena,"