I was carried to Ohio in a swarm of bees

Gary Young- Hummingbirds build their nests

Hummingbirds build their nests under the ferns; little cups of lichen, feathers, and moss. They cannot walk, but they can hover in the air. They can fly forward and fly back, and when they move into the light, their frail bodies shine with iridescence. Watching them in the garden, my own voice startles me saying, look, there's my heart.



Renaissance.
These girls are a big part of my heart, and as busy as we are, these are the moments that continue to make my year, my life, and every little thing in-between make sense.

[Bloodbuzz Ohio- The National]

I'd kiss you, but you know it'd be gently through the door

I wish there was a button to check for ambiguity in my work.

I find language beautiful. I long to hear beautiful prose, the way words can be strung together to communicate a narrative.
... And yet I've been getting slammed for it. Not because of the words I use (for the most part), but because of the embellishment.

Every few weeks I fight back tears as I hear the same comment over and over- what is going on here? I drown myself in ways to express scenarios in wrapped images, much like giftwrap. It's a beautiful outside, but the inside is very concrete. That's what my poetry has been lately- a bunch of giftwrap to cover up what is really at the heart- the present itself, in plain sight, no decoration.

So I gotta toss that paper away, and fast. So long codework.
I'm wanting to get to these presents just as much as you do.

[If You Can't See My Mirrors- The New Pornographers]

From a void to a grain of sand in your hand

Writer's Block

Instead of allowing myself to be stuck, I am constantly trying to climb this rock, this bolder, this big cliff in front of me that once I pass over it, I will freefall into water, crisp and serene and cool.

For now, I feel as if I've lost myself.
But writers are meant to be broken and reformed.

[Orphans- Beck]