A front lawn: 
evenly mowed, 
trimmed, 
cut. 

Watered religiously, 
green green grass 
Head turning as
you and them pass...

What many would call, perfection. 
Like…Pleasantville perfection. 
Every square meter inspected, 
To ensure consistency in each section. 

White picket fence. 
A precursor for purity, order, 
Of 1 follows 2, and 2 follows 3,
because logic is the only degree
to - make - sense.  
Conformity to social expectations, 
A sea of predictable sameness in this nation,

Life… is good. 

Until…a weed pops up. 
With it’s long green stem and narrow bright white petals, 
a vibrant yellow center, 
breathing life into the monotony of green grass.
In stillness,
it blows gently in the wind, 
quietly embracing as life comes to pass.

The nuisance of a weed 
The—audacity of a weed… 
to take away the perfection of a lawn so cared for... 
This manufactured piece of turf, 
Oh the weed–it just disturbs. 

They say a daisy is a weed 
is..subjective. 
Depends on where its grown, 
and persons preference. 

Different place, different time 
different meaning,
from your mind and my mind...

Oh this daisy, 
you call invasive–a weed. 
We–call it, resilient, wild, and free. 

At the intersection of wildflower and weed,
A tension point of such wonder and peaceful Duality. 
So, is it disorder? Refusing to stay within these boundaries?
One needs no permission to grow how it wants to grow. 
This we call non conformity.

Unmanicured? Or maybe just Authentic.
Simply existing without being pruned or arranged,
Yea...thats eclectic.
So a daisy… a weed, if that’s what you say,

Or simply a daisy, just choosing its way.

I left those people in chapters of pages
I burned long ago.
Chapters I was no longer a character in
so that I could go on writing chapters
in new books I could dance freely in. 

Fresh, blank pages, 
healing between every space of every word,
Never linear, 
moving from page 100 to 23 
and onward to 123.
I continue to burn every page written
knowing nothing lasts forever. 

Impermanence, 

Unattached, 

The undoing of– 

To become nothing,
In order to become everything. 

This..
was a different type of silence I had come to learn. 

Not the silence where you find peace,
Not the silence that calms your heart beat,
Not the silence that helps you recognize and
see things as they are and what it is they could be.
It was a silence I had interpreted:

Put your head down, do the work,
work hard, and don’t complain. 


It was a silence of,
Don’t disturb the peace even though there is no peace.
Because the peace in me is crying to speak.


And so... she speaks.

Home is a place where we feel safe,
a place where we feel secure. 
It is a place where love thrives, 
And creativity blooms. 
A place of solitude, 
and a place of warmth.
It knows no bounds 
except the blank walls holding this sacred space together by the strands of your heart-of every heart, 
Stitched through every corner and every tile,
Absorbing every sound that has ever walked through the space,
These walls hold memories. 

Home 
A place of remembering. 

It is a place where we know what is possible
It is a place where we fall into the world
and into darkness.
Where the uneasiness washes over us
painting a portrait of waves crashing
beyond our comprehension

We feel as if we’re drowning but we..
We are merely learning our lung capacity is much more expansive than we understand it to be.

Home …
home is a leap, a jump
a dive into the deepest place for us to lose
ourselves in only to find ourselves
where we’ve always been.

Home

Is the gathering,
The collective of we’re not really strangers.
It is where the work of the heart is done,
A place where we surrender
to what is,
Understanding nothing is ever lost, but only ever changing,

Home.

A sentient,
An embrace,
A separation from what we think we know.
Courage we say, Courage we choose

In this place.. idea of
Home

To build a fruitful life,
It is a space to
Breathe new life.
Into the fall we go,
Through the walls we enter,
Into the abyss we grow,
To see everything as it is,
Infinitely beautiful.