Flora

We carve love into the world
as if it's anything other than 
our own responsibility.
Planting expectations in 
the stories we tell of

"How we met"
And
"How we know"
And 
my guilty pleasure
"We're relieved we can stop now."

But for a seedling to take root
to thrive to grow to bloom
it requires:

- 2 parts Context and Timing
- a dash of sunshine
- relentless intention. 

Somewhere along the way
I inherited their fear, 
for choice, the action 
~ to choose ~
care, vulnerability, investment
became burdensome. 
became another monster
peering out from dark, rich earth. 

They whisper, 
"Was the giving tree 
not courageous?
Did she not end
as she was just beginning?"

Her isolation and
her love's confusion and
her intensity and
her love's fear 
when she was gone... 


Why do we pretend
as if love is anything more
than a series of zero sum
comprises, sacrifices.

Luna

I once dreamt of being
as warm as the Sun,
a life granting star. 

Daughter of
Light
and
Energy

my roots would be embedded
alongside earthworms and
the kind of family you find in sitcoms. 

I tried, really, I tried
but the Sun and I
we burn out,
love escaping us like an
intoxicating gas
pushing time forward
setting the world aglow
drowning in our infinite 
desires to fill voids. 

How could you say no
to the face of a sunflower
or the face of a child
or the face of our fears
death, the ultimate nightfall?

When I woke to the world
a sprawling mess of chaos
with no rhyme or reason
to be offered. 
When I realized that
sometimes shit just happens
and it's glorious and horrific, 
terrible and fanciful. 
When I learned I could not be
as endless as cotton candy sunrises. 

I
laid my head
down to rest. 

When I rose the world was new. 
Strange. 
Something shifted within and without. 
I searched for my role model
and instead point. 
"Look at the Moon, is she not inspiring tonight?"

And just like she
waxes
and
wanes
I find myself teasing those around me. 

I was once told I reserve 
pieces of my humanity, 
that those gifts, when bestowed,
can be heavy, 

How was it phrased... 
Ah yes,
"The Stars can be found in the pieces
you reserve for yourself;
They're missing from the velvet blanket
you coat the world in."

I casted constellations. 
Dippers, big and small. 
Began wearing the weight
of Orion's belt, 
howled a lonely, lovely cry for Lupus. 
Ironically, not all light is created equal. 
Sometimes the truest norths are shrouded
by man-made pollutants.

And just like she
waxes
and wanes
so do I. 

I phase in and out of loving 
loving me, loving you, loving
the space in between stillness
and the fear of not becoming enough. 

I find solace in her rootless journey 
from neither here nor there
but ever present, ever centered
ever the same and hidden
and most valuable to those 
who choose her. 

The light she casts provides
context to shadows and 
romance to simplicity. 
The energy emitted is understated, 
wrapped in the skies finest pearls. 

How ironic is it that when we
bask in her glow we dream of 
elsewhere, nowhere, where
our hopes marry our insecurities?

I dream of yellows and oranges
but I woke to silver and midnight. 
The gentle caress of moonbeams, 
and humbling vastness of the Milky Way. 

For what is life but 
a series of perspectives?

I hope to see you on the road.

Time sought for release, but
Context prevailed in battle. 

For her, magic flowed through 
her fingertips - it's amazing 
what can be accomplished 
when one is endlessly inspired.

Her heart haunted by a vision 
of what could be in another lifetime, 
she acknowledged the impossible. 
You become intimate with dreams 
when you chase them for too long. 

Aligned with Time, she hoped 
one day her her wounds may heal. 
He found her achilles, snapped it
with soothing words, misleading caresses.
Limping, she carried on, searched for
the stars and the moon, prayed for
solace in lonely nights, wished for 
another opportunity to be witnessed 
just once more in this life.

Untitled

What happens when Time tires
of the demands for more, of 
the cries for her to move to
the beat of someone else's drum.

Did she learn to so deftly slip
through our greedy fingertips
as a measure of self-protection?
Has her greatest escape been 
preservation this whole time?

Oracle

When Time tells you
who loves you. 

Believe her. 

When Context tells you
what they are capable of. 

Listen. 

An Introduction

Her

She was written into being as a salve,

not the kind the wounded seek but

the respite and relief they need. 

The bandage of a friend's knowing smile, 

a well timed embrace under sunshine. 

Her healing guided by her worship of

Timing and Context, and Fate's endless love, 

she locked away her own pain, kept it

to study sympathy for how can you heal

if you do not know what it is to be in pain?

Strong and delicate, she met him where

the roads join in their singular mission of

delivering the gifts of now and the promises

of tomorrow revealed in the path ahead. 

Him

Stories are often told in hearts and minds,
in battles and scars, in the fulfillment

of a goal accomplished and wars won.

But the best chronicles are quiet

featuring unknown beginnings and ends.

They are told through the drumbeats of

connections shared with all those

you were and are and never will be.

His soles were callused, encompassed

by skin self-sacrificing for his protection.

Familiar with the gnaw of hunger, with

the drive that propels people through

the impossible and the unimaginable,
without saying anything at all he told
a story of his wounds, a salve, and
the road he trekked to find her.

The Origin of Timing and Context

Many moons ago, 

before Tears and Laughter,

before the curse of Knowledge 
and the sin of Satisfaction, 

there were two beings-

One as fickle as the wind, one as sure as

mountains are tall and streams are steady. 

Day over day, night over night, 

they pondered the quiet of their solitary existence. 

They dreamed of noise and chaos and touch, 

wondered what it could be like to scream

and be seen and heard and held. 

Timing, as promiscuous as the butterfly, 

extended its reach to the far corners of the earth, 

traversing through virgin meadows and

sherbet sunsets toward warmer pastures.

Searching for the weight and stillness of Context. 

Context, a quiet and understated thing, 

gave itself to the stars and the grass. 

Fed the sunflowers with everlasting sunshine, but

accepted nothing in return when 

the brush of the proboscis painted expectations, 

longing across the milkweed,

and whispered sweet nothings inside petals. 

Timing, forever searching for its home, 

and Context, forever guarding its truth. 

Both never quite finding themselves 

seeking comfort from the same full moon. 

But as the world grew smaller, 

while seasons folded into one another, 

Fate sculpted a garden 

so fragrant it captured the attention of Timing, 

so peaceful it soothed the fears of Context. 

When they finally caught sight of each other, 

they realized neither knew themselves truly

until they met the other. 

When the wrinkles on our faces 
match the folds of memories 
we tucked away together in our hearts, 

remind me to tell you our story: 

the origin of Timing and Context.