6/13/15 Love Is A Deep Root

Love is not an unknown.

It is just buried deep inside.

Love is not mysterious to the heart.

It is mysterious to the mind.

Love, it is true, is a deep root.

It is something we all must dig to find, choose to tug, and pull up from those depths (and many of you will know), this is sometimes a messy task. Not always pretty, but the dirt and mud on our hands, if we pull enough, is more rewarding than any taproot too painful to explore. For when the hands are washed love is clean and true, if only we accept it.

We come here today to celebrate this capacity.

The love for our friends–the love they have for us.

And, most of all, the love they have for each other.

5/19/15 What is May?

May is the most difficult month. The month that makes fools of the weather, the plants, the animals, and most of all, me. May is like the prettiest girl at the party. The prettiest girl at the concert, and also the ugliest model at times–or perhaps it is her personality is that is ugly. May sees the start of the hot days. The days that are called the honeymoon days. The days in which it seems like nothing could ever go wrong, before they do. Then, to keep things interesting May might throw in a thunderstorm or tantrum. She might throw in a downpour of tears and gusty winds that can’t decide which way to blow. What she wants at all. And in this fine splice of unpredictability there is calm and quiet, and then just before the sun rises, the singing of the birds. You relax your head, leaning it on her shoulder and for a moment she relaxes as well. Lending some swirling clouds to the sunset, leaving you wondering where the day has gone–if it were all a dream, and if so why you can’t have it every night. But no, it isn’t a dream. It’s just one day of many. One month of twelve. Sleep is all that can bring tomorrow. The summer.


If I don’t know the person you are and you don’t know the person I am

If leaves from branches fall between us

At our feet,

In the yard built for both of us, but always our constant battleground

Then how were we suppose to meet

In any other circumstance?


In spring mornings we’d go out to the Tough Grounds

With fists of mud we’d pound

each other

Not knowing why we dunked each other,

not knowing why we cursed our fathers

yet defended them from one another.


Instead of summer brunches

We fired BBs in bunches.

Remember when you caught that one

In your hand

in your hand in front of your eye

and we both began to cry?


We tasted that autumnal crisp

and if only leaves could have cut your wrists

I would have been the victor,

would have been the king

but like all small things It would have shamed me

with the blame.


It never snowed in winter, we never got that delight

And instead we capered around in the mud

With our faces

And toes

contracting the cold like



Then the spring came again.


And you were not my enemy.

Instead your hair was golden,

Your lips an interest to me.

I knew who were then,

and I think you knew me to.

If you know the person I am and I know the person you are

and if leaves from branches fall between us

We can make this home forever.