I like camping, anyway.

I'm sitting by the fire alone
its heat soaking into my skin and
almost painful against the cold
of the room--the heater's broken.
You come back and, grimly,
shake your head, putting down
the flashlight to scoop up a
protesting cat, whom you hold
and nuzzle as you sit beside me.

I scritch her chin and she extends it
but mewls angrily, except she purrs
as she glares up at us, and when we
let her go she runs across the room
but grabs her toy and runs right back
dropping it dingling at our feet.

I throw it for her and she bolts away,
and leaning into you I say, "We'll
be okay tonight. They'll curl up with
us, under the blankets, for warmth."
You nod, and sure enough the cats
array themselves around us in front
of the fire. By the time the repairman
shows up the next day, we've made
hot chocolate twice and you've got your
super-duper spicy chili on the stove.

Obviously the milk is fine, so I have
a full bowl, and survive, grateful for
a broken heater.

Frost dreams

Watching the sun rise
while standing in a forest
catching the glimpses of sky
between trees and pine needles
made easier because of winter
You ask why I love summer
so much when it is winter
that gives us glimpses of
the sun I idolize.
Holding your hand I
take you to stand out in
a field sixty meters wide
and point to brown ground
with its twisted grass corpses
and say, "In summer these
are flowers, weeds, seeds;
not just grass but also
life reborn, a field
of sunshine wherein
we, too, begin growing."
But you laugh and dig up
a piece of dirt to show me
a seed, and say, "Too late, see?
We are even now planted, waiting,
Though we don't grow much, we
spread our roots while sleeping,
and though springs warms our
roots, it's winter that settles
us, that makes us dream of
summer in the first place."

We watch the sun rise
through slips of trees and pine
and I hold your hand, wishing
the spring's warmth would return,
but last summer, I really wanted
just a simple taste of frost.

If there is a failing, it is not in the figment, who is what it is.

Should I be
not a dream, a figment?
You chase me, little cat,
and I am but a speck floating
that no one else can see.

Will catching me bring you joy?
But how your face falls when
I am truly in your paws,
how quickly boredom unsettles
the unfathomable joy you had
when I was beyond your reach.

Was I more to you
than a speck, than a figment?
Did you think I would finish you,
that I was the last drop of paint
the painter forgot in painting you?
Or that I was an everlasting rat,
sure to please your never-ending hunger?

Should I be not a dream, or a figment?
Should I dare to be just a speck,
when you think to dream more of me?
I can give only what I am, little cat,
and that is but a moment of passing
interesting in a wall that
humans cannot fathom.

Lay your dreams, my hatchlings

Do not throw away your hopes and dreams--
they guide you away from the sea.

As children we trundle on the sand towards the moon
and lay our dreams in clutches, daring to hope
that some will survive to adulthood.
Few do.

But twenty-some years pass, and then
crawling, lumbering, we return, the nests
now empty, yet
somehow, one, two, four of those dreams
find us, join us, lead our way
back to the sea.

Do not throw away your hopes and dreams--
they guide you back to the sea, and become
the water in which you swim,
so that no matter how lost you become
you may always make your way.

Silence in the Office

I smell rose petals in the air
when I walk into the dull, dark office;
silence fills the halls, but I smell
hot coffee, rich and thick, percolating.
The cologne of the neighboring cube
overpowers the sound of his typing
until I hear nothing; the lightly burnt air
scent of the heater running fills a
hum-less room.

I sit, and work, in the silence,
bright colors jumping past my eyes.
Reds, greens, purples of ink
bleeding papers into Standard English,
while pastel blues and eggshell whites
backlight purple mardi gras beads
and turquoise posters of ocean scenes.

I sit, and work, in the silence
and wonder where everyone has gone,
in an office full of scent and color,
the dystopian quiet plays an anthem
to the tune of rising zombies.

Here comes the fall

I.

On the first day of fall, burnt leaves
actually taste okay, even if it's not
how I usually like my tea.

II.

The world sings year-long songs
and the lyrics change every so often.
As a child, the first day of fall was
the change from glimmering opal drops
in the morning grass to
the scent of cinnamon and leaves
in the morning air.

III.

Fall would depress, but
I can smell the State Fair approaching,
caramel apples and crowds so thick
my elbows already hurt, produce
piled high on tables and fried foods
that make my gut churn a month away.
The delight of my fall, the rambunctious
celebratory wake for summer.

Sencha and time

I scoop two teaspoons of sencha leaves
into the strainer--wait, I should have only
used one. But it'll still taste fine, so I
rumble my way down to the coffee machine
and pour the hot water into the empty mug,
leaves still waiting on my desk. Thankfully
that habit is strong enough, or I'd have burnt
leaves with bitterness under the roots. And
I wonder if it's worth it, morning, if it's worth
the heavy eyes and hold hands, today when I
imagine I still feel half-digested catfood under
my nails despite lots of soap, when the blinds
have been near savaged by orange fur, and
what sleep there was, was fraught with snippets
of the kind I was almost glad to be woken from.
No, I think, no it's not worth it. But since I'm
here anyway, I'll drink my sencha. Later, I'll
sit with the writing group and be glad;
the luxury of friendship and time with friends
is harder to afford without that paycheck, so
the "worth-it"ness of mornings changes the
farther I get from them.

image by Maiko Kinari Shincha, from 2010