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The View

(written while several thousand feet in the air)

the ground is a confused checkerboard

all crooked lines 

and rows of trees

like winding scars

the rivers carve their paths;

puddled blood 

in an open wound

here and there

a hair's-breadth 

highway line

points onwards and away

clouds are torn

off clumps of feathery down

suspended planes

of snow

with grooves like

a traveler's shoe prints

A Haiku

consumerism

the heartbeat of here and now

don't buy into it

I Can...

...change diapers like it’s nobody’s business

put my hair in a French braid

make pizza (it’s awesome)

read a book in under twenty-four hours

alphabetize just about anything

kick butt at soccer

tell stories

dance embarrassingly

twirl my spaghetti with a spoon

paint my nails like a pro

eat a whole bag of sunflower seeds by myself

explain sixteenth century politics (true story)

pronounce “mozzarella” the correct way

and spike a badminton birdie like it’s my job. 

And that is just the short list.

Life

“What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

~Mary Oliver

There isn’t enough time. This simple thought is at once a source of dread and excitement. What will I do? Where will I go? I want to do everything. I want to explore ancient ruins and I want to live on a deserted island. I want to eat a real mango and drink from a hollow coconut shell. I want to never see another car or building or paved road again; just endless dewy grass. I want to walk briskly through the streets of New York in a long black coat with red shoes. I want to be a mother. I want to learn to juggle. I want to be a ballerina in George Balanchine’s company. I want to take my shoes off and slosh through rain that has warmed over the hot stones of a street in Naples. Or I could write until my hands fell off and I’d have to use my toes. I want to stay at home and read late into the night and never leave.

There isn’t enough time! Not even close.

Is it acceptable to spend so much time waiting for your life to start? I don’t know. Maybe in the end, the waiting and dreaming is what makes it all worth something.