A friend and I spent time at her chalet in the mountains, where I brought smudge sticks of rosemary, and where I made (and burnt) a rhubarb crisp. It was an interesting creative evening; as she was writing “Rhubarb Crispier”, I wrote this about the overall experience of encouraging her to write and share her talent as a way to care about other people:
Burnt offerings:/
rhubarb, rosemary,/
heart-/
open her soul and start/
2 carry/
the pilgrim wanderer/
to a place where/
she ponders/
and dares/
2 share/
bcuz she cares.

Will I go topless/
And yet never hear from you/
again? That’s painful.

Sitting next/
to my X;/
She looked down/
with a frown./
There my hand rested, protecting my crotch./
Is that deeply Freudian, or what?

Awakening/
to a message from a dater:/
Could anything/
be any greater?/
Could it make my heart sing?/
I’ll let you know later./
Maybe./
If I’m lucky./
We’ll see.

It’s a new day,/
and I just wanted to say/
that though it may seem strange,/
not much has changed/
since 58 minutes ago yesterday./
I still think you’re groov-ay!

Is it okay/
that once or twice a day/
I text you to say,/
in my own poetic way,/
I think you’re groove-ay?

What do I do for fun?
Dance.
Karaoke.
Canoe.
Write poetry
to you.