Prospect Bowl

This is the freedom
that is yours. Yes, the wind
that roars to lift you away,
skis mounted on your shoulder
like a kite unfurling with each blast.
Yes, the ridge line that grabs
your boots and dangles
you over the seamless
sky. Yes, the icicles that grow
between the nose and mouth,
your watering eyes,
and frozen hair forgotten.
And yes, the rush
of silence as your skis hang
over nothing before tipping
into white gravity. Yes,
the motion of the body, the stillness
of the mind. Yes, the wanting. Yes,
the stepping outside. Yes, the giving
of yourself to this. Yes, the falling,
the surrender, the touching
of a beauty that could breathe
your life – yes,
yes, yes.

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Walking Home

Between black soil and platinum
sky, the first August chill gathers
on our skin.  Earth ripe

with muck and spore
beneath our summer shoes, we trip
down the creek-less

wash where not one drop
has flowed all season.  But here,
there is a promise

inside this rain that dapples
our bare arms and saturates
each thirsty breath.  The promise,

it is life,
and despite
the slip and chill,

it is what we choose reverently
with each
muddied

step.

On Abbott Kinney Boulevard, Venice Beach, CA

chrome
handlebar
moustache
perfect
triangle
chest
hair
teal
button
down
pressed
pants
leather
boots
stomp
pavement
unrolling
glances
over
lattes
steaming
sidewalk
walkers
waking
Sunday
morning
storefronts
smelling
perfume
wearing
graffiti
painting
hanging
hibiscus
opening
palms
holding
yeses.