My walk: line by line.

Nature writes its own poem today.

There is literally cotton snowing sideways in the field.

I can begin to feel the upsetting art in me.

A question: What do you think about in your greatest moments?

Here is clean. I want the messy woods. I want a chaos of trees.

An answer: There doesn’t need to be something wrong for a person to seek solitude.

There is no better moment than when I am alone in my own voice, listening only to my own thoughts.

They read me poems.

They see the world in its exquisite disorder.

They remind me of how richly, how heavily, how excruciatingly human I can feel.

There, the words stop. Can you feel me yet?

Because if you don’t feel it by now, if you haven’t felt it yourself, no one can explain it to you. Not me.

You are a stranger to your own romance, then.

A thought: I don’t want to see another human right now.

But one…

Because I don’t want to speak or hear.

At all.

And we just cannot stop it.

Save for these walks.

Just leave me alone to my art.

My maddening love.

My leaf and this pen—and I will write my heart onto it.

A turn: I cannot help but take the more beautiful one, even if it will get me lost in a place wanting desires.

It had them once, this turn.

Now a conspicuous void.

A memory: The problem is that we own this place.

A break: Do you ever have an indescribable feelings that drive you again and again to this spot, to your attempts to frame it? Ones that overwhelm you and keep you from moving. Ones that paralyze you in the grass while you watch the clouds. Ones that you ever recognize but can never identify?

A question: What are you doing?

An answer: I appear to be lying down, but I am actually writing a poem, collecting myself, doing exactly what I must, thinking, feeling, listening to classical music, monitoring the clouds, honoring the yearning inside me, watching ballet…

A wave: Everything is falling behind me the same way as I pass it all.

A correction: Ah! Alas, I had to see a someone, but she was barefoot and picking at a tree. A kindred spirit.