Shenandoah
Watershed
The Wildness
There is a forest,
that is just on the edge of me.
It is a little bit of wildness that butts up,
against my ordered, suburban life,
with its prescribed milestones and meetings.
There are seasons that pass here,
of hard ground and wet ground.
The season of the turtle, the turkey, the fox.
I try every season to cultivate a landscape .
I want the unbounded beauty,
but I also want it controlled and contained.
I want the lushness,
but without the rot
that makes more lushness.
I love the woods.
I seek shelter in the community of trees.
I seek comfort from skin to skin contact
my soft skin against her rough skin.
I seek solace in the shadows;
where I find reprieve
from the heat of my own aliveness.
My ears are eased
by the susurration of the leaves.
But the wildness of the woods encroaches sometimes.
It has a way of creeping into my landscape,
whose possession is an assumption I have come to make
The plot of land and the dome of sky that I covet,
but it is not really mine,
anymore than I am its.
If anything,
we borrow each other.
So, as I was saying...
the forest transgresses into the open field.
It starts with the brambles that creep across
and make the paths impassable
to my delicate skin;
any action I take will tear me up.
I am sabotaged by what’s blowing in the wind.
I am sabotaged by what grows underfoot
without my awareness,
even though I endeavor to be so aware of everything.
I think I might just let the wildness happen.
Trust the forest to grow where it needs to.
and let the wild parts of me be wild.
There is a forest,
that is just on the edge of me.
It is a little bit of wildness that butts up,
against my ordered, suburban life,
with its prescribed milestones and meetings.
There are seasons that pass here,
of hard ground and wet ground.
The season of the turtle, the turkey, the fox.
I try every season to cultivate a landscape .
I want the unbounded beauty,
but I also want it controlled and contained.
I want the lushness,
but without the rot
that makes more lushness.
I love the woods.
I seek shelter in the community of trees.
I seek comfort from skin to skin contact
my soft skin against her rough skin.
I seek solace in the shadows;
where I find reprieve
from the heat of my own aliveness.
My ears are eased
by the susurration of the leaves.
But the wildness of the woods encroaches sometimes.
It has a way of creeping into my landscape,
whose possession is an assumption I have come to make
The plot of land and the dome of sky that I covet,
but it is not really mine,
anymore than I am its.
If anything,
we borrow each other.
So, as I was saying...
the forest transgresses into the open field.
It starts with the brambles that creep across
and make the paths impassable
to my delicate skin;
any action I take will tear me up.
I am sabotaged by what’s blowing in the wind.
I am sabotaged by what grows underfoot
without my awareness,
even though I endeavor to be so aware of everything.
I think I might just let the wildness happen.
Trust the forest to grow where it needs to.
and let the wild parts of me be wild.
Batik Road
Batik Earth
So many forms of water here.
So many forms of air.
So many forms of flesh.
We are all meandering about,
in to and out of each other.
What will happen?
What is happening?
What just happened?
So many forms of water here.
So many forms of air.
So many forms of flesh.
We are all meandering about,
in to and out of each other.
What will happen?
What is happening?
What just happened?
Batik Field
Spring forth slow, green shoot,
the soil has fed your seed,
answer the sun's call.
Spring forth slow, green shoot,
the soil has fed your seed,
answer the sun's call.
Buffy
Seasonal Shed
Season of decay;
the wilting and shedding of what was once fresh,
folded into the smell of wet brown leaves
piled and spread flat.
This is the secret of new life,
the life of my garden,
of my womb.
That which will be shed;
that which is un-needed.
What will be kept,
to bear fruit in summer?
Seeds keep their secrets,
until they bloom.
Season of decay;
the wilting and shedding of what was once fresh,
folded into the smell of wet brown leaves
piled and spread flat.
This is the secret of new life,
the life of my garden,
of my womb.
That which will be shed;
that which is un-needed.
What will be kept,
to bear fruit in summer?
Seeds keep their secrets,
until they bloom.
Bresnahan Woods I
Veteran's Park Boardwalk
Does the language find me?
So that I may find me?
A step further along in the forest.
on some path,
that I have painted.
Does the language find me?
So that I may find me?
A step further along in the forest.
on some path,
that I have painted.
Spring Birch I
Spring Birch II