Please help me never to forget how much I love the wild things.
I need to always know how rain smells when it kisses the prairie floor.
And what sage brush smells like in hot.
And the anxiety of not- knowing, the spirit feels ferocious.
And the pitch of a mosquito near your ear in the shade. It's its own brass section.
And that I no longer believe in"fly-over country."
And how sometimes there are stars that leave streaks in the night sky that you can feel in your bones.
And the clap sounds that aspen leaves make.
And how my hands look after touching the ground too much.
And the dark of turning over dirt again. It's almost always surprising.
And the ripples of the tall grass.
Those waves.
And how needful and demanding it feels to be loved and welcome.
And how a desert is exploding and alive.
And the subtlest contrast of that near-dead-purple and the brightest green of spring and the not-yet-spring/still-winter-grey, foreboding sky. It's almost invisible to detect.
Push me to remember this.
I can't afford to let it go.
And the unbearable glitter of fresh snow.
And the determined eyes of a scared animal. Especially a mother.
And the drunken laziness of bees after noon.
And the bitterest little fight that garden-fresh spinach gives back.
And the velutinous rub of baby maple leaves.
Their translucence and verdancy.
And that maybe God is real and evident after all.
And the silence of rocks.
And that pollen rests on the ocean in mile-long skeins.
And how the moon sometimes only whispers that it is a sphere-
And how other times it can't help itself but shout to remind you when it sits down close-by.
And the zealous wink of turned leaves on a still-green mountain.
And how it feels to see your neighbors going outside into the sunshine for the first time.
It's like we meet each other and fall back into love.
And the absolute deafening roar of thunder that bounces off your skull and tempts to shatter whatever walls you have around your self.
What is thunder, really anyways, the physics of clouds?
And how my heart sounds in my head when I walk faster or wake up scared or alone.
And how harshly the skin on my legs burns when I get out of the ocean.
Maybe one day I will stop getting out.
And the rush of sugar from Grandpa's apples.
(mmmm, mmmm, rotten)
And how spider babies fly on spun silk that glows in sun.
Are they ever afraid of heights or of landing?
And how raw and fast I think I need to push myself when I think I might be in love a little, even thought I'm not sure I ever have really.
And how ferociously my hair will whip in the wind. It punishes my eyelids and cheeks and makes temporary tendrils, promises to give me broken, split ends. I couldn't care less or love them more.
I wear them as badges of freedom and trust.
I am the most alive when I am free.
I need to always know how rain smells when it kisses the prairie floor.
And what sage brush smells like in hot.
And the anxiety of not- knowing, the spirit feels ferocious.
And the pitch of a mosquito near your ear in the shade. It's its own brass section.
And that I no longer believe in"fly-over country."
And how sometimes there are stars that leave streaks in the night sky that you can feel in your bones.
And the clap sounds that aspen leaves make.
And how my hands look after touching the ground too much.
And the dark of turning over dirt again. It's almost always surprising.
And the ripples of the tall grass.
Those waves.
And how needful and demanding it feels to be loved and welcome.
And how a desert is exploding and alive.
And the subtlest contrast of that near-dead-purple and the brightest green of spring and the not-yet-spring/still-winter-grey, foreboding sky. It's almost invisible to detect.
Push me to remember this.
I can't afford to let it go.
And the unbearable glitter of fresh snow.
And the determined eyes of a scared animal. Especially a mother.
And the drunken laziness of bees after noon.
And the bitterest little fight that garden-fresh spinach gives back.
And the velutinous rub of baby maple leaves.
Their translucence and verdancy.
And that maybe God is real and evident after all.
And the silence of rocks.
And that pollen rests on the ocean in mile-long skeins.
And how the moon sometimes only whispers that it is a sphere-
And how other times it can't help itself but shout to remind you when it sits down close-by.
And the zealous wink of turned leaves on a still-green mountain.
And how it feels to see your neighbors going outside into the sunshine for the first time.
It's like we meet each other and fall back into love.
And the absolute deafening roar of thunder that bounces off your skull and tempts to shatter whatever walls you have around your self.
What is thunder, really anyways, the physics of clouds?
And how my heart sounds in my head when I walk faster or wake up scared or alone.
And how harshly the skin on my legs burns when I get out of the ocean.
Maybe one day I will stop getting out.
And the rush of sugar from Grandpa's apples.
(mmmm, mmmm, rotten)
And how spider babies fly on spun silk that glows in sun.
Are they ever afraid of heights or of landing?
And how raw and fast I think I need to push myself when I think I might be in love a little, even thought I'm not sure I ever have really.
And how ferociously my hair will whip in the wind. It punishes my eyelids and cheeks and makes temporary tendrils, promises to give me broken, split ends. I couldn't care less or love them more.
I wear them as badges of freedom and trust.
I am the most alive when I am free.
remind me if I ever forget to tell you.
