Swing

Swing traipse-traipse swing

to the beat, the rhythm, chase -

stop, follow, step-step turn

and the breath, the hit, the sweet sweet dip. 

Give me a lead I can follow,

whose arms have me in tow

whose legs guide me where to go

and whose grasp of flair has me 

twirling skirts, head, hair. 

Feeling so loose in motion,

so exhilarated in the rush,

it's easy to forget that we

are just on feet and not skates

and that my partner is just that - 

a partner, for five minutes, less. 

If I could get your number, I would,

if I could take you home, I would,

but I can't get past the shortness of breath

and the hotness of skin to think - 

just what about dancing has me high

on your every fluid move and word.

First forest firs

I will find the largest tree in the park
and spread my arms wide at its base;
Let them call me a tree-hugger and stare -
I want to look up and see the emerald canopy
fade into the depth of the stormy sky
and feel closer to something that has lived, and stood witness to,
much more than I ever will in my short existence.

Perhaps there was once a time when people
took to the shade of firs on restless-weathered days,
and perhaps this tree bent over the birth of spring's first fawns,
or the muted love-language of adolescents enraptured -
their youth a foolish, overflowing torrent of quickened pulse and passion,
soon wiped clean by years of adult sobriety.

I will feel my small consequence in face of such longevity,
humbled by the weight of hundreds of years of living
and share two arms' worth of innocence in peace,
taken in, folded, layer by layer,
between skin and bark.

Letters

I am used to getting bills in the mail,
asking me for money.
I expect bills -
they are a part of life.
I am used to getting notifications in the mail,
telling me what I owe the government;
the sum is always too much to comprehend
and so I set these pieces aside,
knowing they are part of my life.
Just when I think
that the only people who send me things
are those who want something from me,
I get a letter.
A letter that gives.
Letters give me voices of people I care about,
they give me words;
words that were found and written
just for me.
I settle into letters
the way you sink into a plush sofa
at the end of a long workday.
And letters have that funny quality
of being here-and-now and past-and-back-then
at the same time;
physical mementos of virtual conversations,
hugs and laughs shared on paper.
I may get tens of thousands of bills in a lifetime,
or hundreds of notifications,
but even if I could count on fingers and toes
all the letters I will get,
they are, quite singlehandedly,
the only reason I see fit
to own a mailbox.