bye, summer.
hello, fall!
the sea holds no more promises,
it is the mountains i crave.
(even the birds are feasting on pumpkins!)

what light may i bring?

room for?

It happens, empty and full
you can hardly breathe
or stand to look at the words as they are
being written.
You wait, and you tend.
But when am i to start stretching again?
Step over the oil leak;
the rainbow is gone, the sun
has retreated. Stifle, stifled,
rifle through the ephemera.
Get up!and run towards something
useful.

farmer: old picture, new words.

i can no longer remember the names
of the dogs that slept loudly in homemade pens
nestling restlessly in torn up paper
from the hands of my father
or my father’s secretary.
i can see faces, dog’s faces
and hear the leathery snap of my grandfather’s hand
but i no longer know their names.
the father of my father,
quick to anger
(in general)
quick to forgive
(me, when i broke his homemade fence
or peed my pants while i played with my cousin).
he learned how to drive
a whip (for his sons)
a car (for his wife)
a tractor (for his trade)
angry words (for his family)
kind words (for his neighbor).
his most loyal companions
would pile quail at his feet
and beg for some love.
he was always quick to give it to them.
he knew them.
his wife, slow to anger, quick to love;
he didn’t know what to do with her.
she was the caretaker
and the day her leg was hurt in the barn
he didn’t know what to do.
he watched, frantically.
he watched slowly.
he watched my mother’s hands,
ones i had always known to be gentle.
what is gentle to a farmer?

Her heart of darkness is a bird named Sorrow.
He flaps his wings once for no
Twice for tears
Three times, just for exercise.

No,

Sorrow flaps twice and the eardrums of those passing by
Are beaten.

what it means

"rootsies" is a name i dreamed
and now i'm using it to mean a community of words and images
and experiments with light and polaroids
and thoughts on my heritage
and some observations on life and maybe on truth
and on what beauty is and what it might not be
and sometimes love, and sometimes grief
family, friends, home(is where the heart is)
and where my heart is. full.

Speak no more of lineage
Of those who came first because
They did not make you.

You were born
In the same instance when
A bird was sighing, a man crying, a child

Understanding, but not quite yet
That sometimes you must see the rise and fall
Of your own
Chest

To know you are being.
Sometimes you will
Be
And not quite know, and
Other times you will know and just barely
Be.