a hummingbird pokes its nose into the throat of a purple rhododendron. spring has sprung. calvin has a may cold. he seized this morning in my arms. screamed. stiffened. convulsed. i slathered lavender oil on his toes and souls. squirted cannabis oil in his mouth when it was over.
skies are white. pine fronds roll in the wind. it looks cold outside. my back is slightly better today, having recently done a number on it transplanting a large shrub that is really a tree. things are finally getting green.
college students amble by at ungodly hours. drunken, some of them. they are through with their classes. my son will never be one of them. he can't even push a doorbell on his own. at night he bangs his head so hard on the padded side of his bed i wonder if he could give himself a concussion. wonder if his brain could be any worse than it already is. he's my sweet, drooly boy. my insufferable son. my enigmatic child.
there's that back twinge again. i hope it doesn't seize up on me.
from the base of a spruce a gray squirrel ogles me through a warped window. an animal more capable than my son. until it gets run over by a truck.
dirty water shimmers in a sunflower-shaped birdbath. so much to be grateful for. so much to lament. going nowhere fast. somewhere, light bends through a half-full vase. the world looks different through discrete lenses. we ought to constantly seek other vistas.
the artist, song, his moves and frames replay in my head. genius. yes. for some, this is america. will misguided whites ever wake up? attempt understanding? make reparations? change? what is with people? still. these days. so lacking in humanity. such ample conceit, contempt, fear, denial, deceit, greed.
perspective. sitting here inside on a now-beautiful day. san francisco both a distant memory and a dream to one day behold again. i'll be back for you. your endless friendly faces, spectacular parks, beaches, vistas, cozy alcoves.
here now. wind still blowing. bees buzzing. child stomping. song repeating. back breaking. heart aching. is there a difference? limited existence simultaneously rich. looking through different lenses. seeking unfamiliar vistas and faces.
skies are white. pine fronds roll in the wind. it looks cold outside. my back is slightly better today, having recently done a number on it transplanting a large shrub that is really a tree. things are finally getting green.
college students amble by at ungodly hours. drunken, some of them. they are through with their classes. my son will never be one of them. he can't even push a doorbell on his own. at night he bangs his head so hard on the padded side of his bed i wonder if he could give himself a concussion. wonder if his brain could be any worse than it already is. he's my sweet, drooly boy. my insufferable son. my enigmatic child.
there's that back twinge again. i hope it doesn't seize up on me.
from the base of a spruce a gray squirrel ogles me through a warped window. an animal more capable than my son. until it gets run over by a truck.
dirty water shimmers in a sunflower-shaped birdbath. so much to be grateful for. so much to lament. going nowhere fast. somewhere, light bends through a half-full vase. the world looks different through discrete lenses. we ought to constantly seek other vistas.
the artist, song, his moves and frames replay in my head. genius. yes. for some, this is america. will misguided whites ever wake up? attempt understanding? make reparations? change? what is with people? still. these days. so lacking in humanity. such ample conceit, contempt, fear, denial, deceit, greed.
perspective. sitting here inside on a now-beautiful day. san francisco both a distant memory and a dream to one day behold again. i'll be back for you. your endless friendly faces, spectacular parks, beaches, vistas, cozy alcoves.
here now. wind still blowing. bees buzzing. child stomping. song repeating. back breaking. heart aching. is there a difference? limited existence simultaneously rich. looking through different lenses. seeking unfamiliar vistas and faces.
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| Photo by Michael Kolster |
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