The thing about Washington (Bellingham, specifically) is that it is gray,
engulfed in a shroud of sorts,
of subdued excitement,
like my own nature of passivity,
and at best, a sly insouciance -- I thought of the word
As long as I can remember, i have craved abudance,
a fluttering abstraction,
that I literally crossed oceans to find--Luaksa and Istanbul and every airport in between.
would be better,
more wonder-striking than anything I could write.
Each experience changed me,
like a stormy Boardwalk stroll,
or climbing a tree for the very first time,
but life itself remained a thing with feathers,
and not much more than a thing to be tolerated like a dead end job.
A hope dismissed.
Vagaries never used to phase me,
a state of being that my mother and I call being Australian
(which I was),
but then I walked into a desk,
shivering until my feet were colven,
because I smelled the
heard the sough's anthem through branches and
heavy hair tumbling over a shoulder,
and I recognized the sum of
poetry personified in shimmying abundance, and
(my breath hitches)
a life worth living.
It isn't so much of a noticing of things newly perceived
or a thinking of things newly thought,
though there is no end to that
(the beauty of the tilted ground,
a discolored streetlight,
mood ring eyes)
but there is a new perspective,
llike I was seeing left instead of right,
drops of light,
as a heart that melts and fills