10 January 2013


For now, the smoke has given way to jasmine once more, if only the breath of memory. The air is still, but for the ripples the cicadas make, to say that this day will steam you ’til your bones grow limp.

No, the air is not still – not completely: the palm fronds dance with themselves, and the climbing spinach twirls its tendrils as I once did, reaching out for anything to take hold of.

We keep low today, crawl towards the water-hole, towards the cacophony of the gathering, towards the song of water on cool pebbles.

We long to go deeper.

2 January 2013


Relics accumulate in my home like a shrine:
a gleaming Venn diagram and 36 glowing drops of sky
on the table; clouds swimming in the fridge.

Outside, the climbing spinach makes itself at home.

1 January 2013


The palms near the traffic lights broadcast a sweet Southern birdsong as I wait for the signal. In the deepening blue of early evening, I strain to see a place among those swaying arcs of leaves where any bird could perch, and am left wondering if the trees themselves have learned to sing.