SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
Accepting Offers - Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Wednesday, Aug. 24, 2005 @ 11:12 pm
Going Solo





Dip your tongue into me; I want to feel your powder wings lightly on my skin.

I flew myself, in the rainbow-horizon dawn, Sunday worshipping my Sun God, over the Georgia Strait to the scattering of islands.

Leaning on the edge of the ferry, I begin a conversation with a messenger. We're fated to have met, celestial connections. His daughter is Nicole, the name that is on my mislabelled lab coat. There we are, writing in our heads, and talking out loud in a relentlessly interesting interaction.

Then the ferry docks and he leaves me with: There's always a hill out of the ferry terminal.

The day turns over in time with the turning of my pedals. Seals watch me on the shore, and I swim out to them dreaming of the times I could hold and help their pleading brown eyes. Hourly the ferries sail past, kicking up huge waves that lick the fly of my tent.

In the darkness a stag enters my campsite. His hooves clatter on the picnic table, he snorts.

I'm not afraid of being alone here.



Roots | Shoots