the way things get done

slowly.

hands dirtied in pockets of time.

deeply.

uses and abuses and we all have secrets.

indeed.

find me another way of possible.

quietly.

there is so much work to be done.

finally.

this is the way to get things done.

bodies in motion

and then there is that moment

when i find myself moving beyond words

and imbedded in the smell of your skin

this is where i make the stories grow

as our breathing fills the room

and we are buried under this glorious sky

there is always the unexpected

joy of repetition as we return to this moment

wrapping our bodies around it with grace

names

there’s something about your name.

i wish i could say

it is always on my lips.

it is not.

it requires attention

to fix my thoughts on you.

a reminder of all that is good.

rehearsing the story

only gets me so far

searching for the edges

the threat of the sacred.

this is a sword

this is a sword

it has two edges

they are equally sharp

this is a symbol

a metaphor

for words

words need a home

a sheath of some sort

perhaps a body

we can share a bed

keep the lights on

lose ourselves

there are wounds

there are scars

we can share dreams

hope is an anchor

that too is a metaphor

let it be a home

fear is a sword

where is it buried

close that door

Conversations

I wish it could always be like this.

Good food and conversations

about art, deep and honest questions

exploring meaning and

the artist’s responsibility.

Passion and laughter fill the room

as we share the afternoon.

As it bleeds into evening

I only wish we could speak more

about all these things, more often,

openly. Engaging the ideas

that shape the world, that

challenge us to change, to begin

a different conversation again and again.