“The deep roots never doubt spring will come.”   
 -Marty Rubin

You are listening to a favorite song and committing to adding a 
soundtrack to your days. You catch a glimpse of the full moon 
unexpectedly through an open window. The smell of an old book:
A book in bed. You wake up before your alarm and realize 
you still have time to sleep. The smell of coffee (or tea) brewing 
in the morning Brand new clothes, they fit great. You discover 
a forgotten $20 bill in your pocket. A friend pays for lunch. Birds 
singing. Feeding the birds. Neon sunsets. Creaking boats. Perfect pen strokes.
A fresh notebook. The smell of rain on hot pavement. Gentle rainfall 
against your window. A text from an old friend. Making plans with a new one.
You hit every green light, and take a local shortcut in traffic.
You suddenly remember, you can be whoever you want. Remove a sticker 
perfectly without leaving residue. Breeze on a hot day. Wind chimes chiming.
A plant you’ve been taking care of sprouts new growth. Then Flowers.
You get complimented by a stranger. Honeysuckle in the air.
Your tank is full. You pull a warm towel out of the dryer, wrap yourself in it.
See kindness in the world. Be kindness in the world. Finding the exact right 
words. Watch a pet curl up in a sunbeam. You’re not overthinking.
The moment pain starts to fade, the moment you forget you were ever in pain.
Inside jokes. They all laugh at your joke. Hot Baths. Bubbles. Self care.
Roses. Growing your own fruit. Eating your own fruit. You walk barefoot 
on soft grass. The smell of fresh cut grass. You try a new recipe and 
you already have all the ingredients. Watching a candle flicker 
in a dimly lit room. You learn something new. You teach someone.
You listen to an old voicemail from a loved one. The smell of fresh baked 
chocolate chip cookies. You send a nice text to a loved one just because.
Seeing leaves swirl perfectly funnel in the wind. Getting lost in a good book
and realizing hours have passed. You catch it before it falls. You fix it
before it breaks. Finding a parking spot right in front. Hitting the right note. 
Running your fingers over a well-loved piece of fabric. When you can’t tell 
whose giving or getting a hug. Watching fireflies. Finding a show 
that allows you fall into a new world to wonder. A dog wags its tail 
when it sees you. You’re laughing, and laughing, and crying. 
Smell the perfume a loved one used to wear. Stargazing, and remembering 
just how small we are. You sit in complete silence, and know you can 
come back here, anytime you want.

We exists in worlds.

where edges between vast / minuscule b l u r.

                       —we are both impossibly small and pragmatically large.

Real Wise Owls

I prefer whirring drills 
against naked ears,
than the screeches 
of someone knowing.

When joy is stolen 
from correction. 
straightening smiles 
with a higher vantage

    points of pre
    tension:
    Tension forced 
    before illusion.

Slick talons rip
into song, like scalpels 
slicing down 
pillows, losing 
hoards of feathers.

Small pink lungs 
swell in unison, 
each sigh, a pulse, 
a wave. When care seeps 
out, it pours in. Slipping 
grins in, like bills slid 
through narrow slits,  
bells ringing, time waged 
on the collective.
Every One :: Everyone.
Gentle ballerinas tilt and meld 
into mercury. Liquid mirrors 
of Brother and Sister, 
and our Father who arts, 
Mother nature thriving.
One motion, in tandem.
Dancing is a golden law.

In a shallow cavity 
impressed by departed desire, 
a still lake forms. Content, able 
to assume any shape. Freedom 
found after surrender. Liberty
not bred from thrusting, but 
bated breath, belonging only
to the non-seeking. Oh what power
and potential in the wantless, 
in the complete: carnal hands, 
with palms down, finger-painting 
with water. Art outlined by 
emptiness, canvas blank, save
for blind and bleeding strokes 
of non,  forming immunity from 
persuasion. Proof of inertia. 
And yet, after the climax 
of resolve, a snag...

Spirit testifies: 
Oh wise one, under not, embers glow. 
A fire doused for ceremony. Many sing 
of joy of plenty, and you've heard the cries 
of yearning, but those who pray for good
riddance of wanting, root as tumors in the Earth.


© NJSIMAT