Me, upon hearing that Britney is officially an X-Factor Judge:
Two Years Later
i’m told that you’re gone
a young life exited
but all i can think
a young life existed
In Memory of Dean
6:30 am,
poetry on the roof top
papers with words
a masterpiece
not yet complete
but still whole
Two years ago today, a friend of mine passed away at 18 years old. He was the younger brother and only sibling to my best friend. At his funeral, a friend of his family who delivered the eulogy read a poem I had written in remembrance, based on a memory I had of him and his budding love for poetry. I’ve never been more proud to share my words than I was on that day. I share them again today.
Guess whose got two thumbs, speaks limited French, and has finally got not one but two job interviews after a month of searching and over 25 applications filled?
THIS MOI!
Lone Tree
sometimes i feel like a lone tree on a plain
i take all the sun, all the water, the soil
and it’s not selfish, it’s lifestyle
but when storms break,
i find myself hunched over,
wind whipping leaves,
lightning snapping branches,
hail beating bark
a forest would be better company
but i want that sun, water, and soil to myself
it’s not selfish, it’s just how it’s been
wild friends appear!
A Goodbye to Winter
Summer’s coming and everyone is eager for warm blue skies and sunkissed skin. I, too, can’t wait for summer but I find I’m among the few who feel sad to say goodbye to winter’s chill and the quiet little things you find throughout the season.
I love the look of a cold winter’s night, the deserted streets as everyone huddles inside around fireplaces and electric heaters, and the strangeness of lone individuals walking down an empty lane as a wind stirs grounded snowflakes into false flight.
Luckily, I’m rarely one of those individuals walking outside alone as Michael (who isn’t cold’s biggest fan) will come out with me as any dutiful boyfriend should. Though we’re likely to be the only people who’ve gone out willingly.
This past winter, on one of those night outings (which aren’t as common as I’m making them out to be due to Michael’s aversion to cold!), we discovered a weird patch of sand along the Detroit River, right next to the Ambassador Bridge. We sat with our boots dug into it, watching waves loll onto the sand in front of us. The bridge’s glow charmed us like carnival lights on a boardwalk. Michael and I dubbed this little spot “the Beach.”
(Let this be said: winter is definitely not as sexy as summer. Michael and I were bundled up like Russian babushkas, so no rolling-in-the-sand make-out session occurred but it was just as romantic!)
To call that tiny, rather unimpressive spot a “beach” seems funny now, considering that I’m writing about (or maybe lamenting) winter and the idea of a beach inherently belongs to summer. I guess what I’m getting at is that winter can have all the power and beauty we all see in summer.
There’s liberation and freedom in winter that’s much different than summer, that can only be found if you brave the cold. It’s in the hush of the street at night, in the way your breath looks as it swirls from your mouth like smoke and meets up with the stars somewhere above.
