my mind doesn’t rest.

snow flurries of thoughts

and worries

accumulating

even when i ask them to go

away

i think of heartache

of death

of what ifs

or could-bes.

i think

i think

i think

i think

and sometimes

i wish

i wish

i wish

for a world where i don’t feel all of this.

for a quiet mind.

but what if it’s too quiet?

would i miss the loud?

and what about the artists? the poets?

how would i create?

art is chaos in a simpler form

and i’d rather have chaos than quiet.

when i need a minute to clear

my head

i go to my lilac tree

with its deep purple blooms

vibrant against the overcast

sky

and its mighty branches

swaying tall in the breeze

the flowers brushing shoulders

as if they’re in on their own

little secret.

is the secret that

even on days when all seems unbearable

unreasonable

unmanageable

beauty still exists?

tucked away

in my front yard

waiting for the right ears

to come along

lean in

and hear their whispers?

there’s just something about soil

that makes me plunge my arms right in

straight to my elbows

my fingers tickling worms

brushing roots

thumbing over stones

the warm sun on the back of my neck.

but my arms are cold

from the earth’s caress

its steady embrace

as i turn old into new

and wait for the seeds to bloom.

one morning

i decided to go for a walk

on a path less traveled.

i stepped around jagged stones

and ducked under wayward branches

my sneakers squelching under fresh mud

following along this trail

to the unknown.

at first

i jumped at every sound

a twig snapping

a bush rustling

a creature chattering

afraid that i would get snatched up

punished for wandering

for testing my

limits.

but soon enough those sounds

became familiar

and the voices in my head turned

from trepidation to praise

and the brush cleared

and the mud dried

and i trusted my stomping feet

to steer me back home.