Mount Si wildfire.

Fire on the mountain. Smoky river valley. Wildfire reminds me to accept.

(Some things.)

I would rather lose trees this way than by the mindless expansion of sprawl. Why didn't everyone get all up in arms when they clear-cut the ridge for homes? Suburbanization is a wildfire, but worse. At least the fire knows to leave fertility in its wake.

Trust me, my heart breaks for the mountain too, but my heart has been breaking every day for years for all the things being burned that aren't in our backyards, or right in front of our eyes; the things that are hidden but are the direct fuel for the monstrosity of industrial civilization--people, animals, trees, places enslaved, mined, and burned for the convenience of our daily lives.

I am guilty if anyone is.
I too have been basking in ease of summer.

And well, this season, this year, feels like the first really summer of my life (of my mind) since childhood--finally feeling joyful and alive. Finally happy.
I deserve it.
But so do the people working in the sweatshops to make my fashion, the minerals manipulated into the tools of my passions.

I am finding peace
and the world burns.

How does this work?

Wildfire reminds me to accept.

(All things).

Intimacy

I spend my days
barefoot
walking spinning
weeding.
It's intimate
to pull up roots that lay
so lightly just beneath
the surface of mulch
O Horizon.
Oh horizon I watch
the mountains in the distance
dreaming of you
for almost two weeks
I am good.
And not just good--humble
noble--am I?
I walk outside
barefooted night
barefooted sky
baring my skin my soul
to the stars on high
to the trees whose roots lie
so solid beneath
the surface. And yet
for four days I crouch
crawl sit and think
I am good
for pulling up the roots of another thing
and calling it a weed--
diligent in digging
each piece and snatching up every heart-
shaped leaf of morning glory
[bindweed]
Morning Glory.
I am good.

I am good.
Revitalizing, renewing this place
but it's the destroying that follows
me into my dreams as obsession--
beetles
displaced, spiders
scattering.
I can hardly escape it
under the stars.
A possession.
An intimacy.
What am I?
Am I good?

The hearts follow me
into the forest and my eyes are frantic
for the row of green hearts
up, up, up,
like an embroidered pattern
on 90's preteen jeans
--something I want to erase. But these,
they follow me into the woods
and I only see things
to pluck and pull,
and tame

What is wild?
What am I?
Am I good?

The hearts follow me.
Be noble
Be noble
Be noble
each successive one tells me as it winds up
the precious trees I try to protect,
try to
control this wild virus.
It won't stop. Winding. Spinning.
Up. up. up.

And then I spin
and I spin and dance with other people
to the tune of explosions, and the black smoke
from the marina, rising, dances too.
What is good?
Watching those flames engulf and rise and spread and
die enlivens me, and I dance
and I spin and I fall.
And I fall and fall
from grace
for you, from you, with you,
with him.

What am I
but happy to see him in the morning's glory?
We start (and end) our day with embrace
and I don't know why
but my heart flutters
up, up, up
when I see his smile.

The clouds cover the mountains.
A storm brews around them
and I wonder
[where you are, what this is]
at the intimacy of standing
side-by-side silent
awkward as we learn
how to stand in place nobly,
humbly,
tall and strong, in self
in place,
together.

Our roots intertwine
and who am I
to pluck them from their place
these hearts
growing together
up, up, up
binding, spinning, winding
up
until...

my head spins
drunk//tilting
horizon cloud-
cover my eyes
blindness engulfing

I sit at the bar brain spinning
and the heart vines winding
climb the stool beneath
entangle my legs
my belly my
heart with hearts.
I stumble
spinning.

~~~

Just now
I remember that book.
It said to pluck the weeds
before they dig in deep.
I try
to extract, try
to control, but just one clip
and it will grow
again.

~~~

For almost two weeks I am good.
[What is good?]
For four days
I clear-cut a whole forest
of weeds. And now
they trail behind me in my dreams
leaving seeds; taking root in my
bare feet and string along
strewing hearts, stringing hearts
as I go on.

What is good? What am I? Why?

He drives me home,
not my own, but home
of one who held me on
before.
I wonder and the green hearts
bind in my stomach
in my chest, my arms,
in his green car as my head spins.
are lifted up to him
and pull him in.
He pulls me in
embrace. I collapse
safe.
It feels good. So good. What is good?

I don't care.
I rest, chest on chest
head on shoulder. Hand to neck.
Heart to heart.

I try to let go
but my tendrils have hold
and he is holding me
up
up
up
for now.

And then
I breath
I breath, and carefully
unfurl my arms uncurl my fingers
so carefully so not to drop
any leaves.
And I smile say goodbye
and--oh [my heart]
I leave [leaves].

~~~

Some call it bind weed
but I still prefer morning glory
and it will come back surely.
Do I pluck it
or let it grow?

~~~

I spend my days barefooted
walking
spinning
weeding.
It is intimate.