RUBIES IN CRYSTAL
Does language hover between my nerve endings and the world, or is language my skin itself?
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
I live in a city in a small apartment. Fabric covers a doorway and shelves. I'd like to see myself dance before it is too late.
Faded opulence. Over-the-edge-of. Yet floral abundance. The flowers are the stars—beauty, that edge of fading.
Doubles. Who are we? Repetitions of ourselves. Our memories create us in our fragmentary identities. I fold into who I was or who I will become. Uncertainty is confusing. People flee from my uncertainty.
White Petal
Look into a dissolving mirror
bones, skin, neurons
the self-image.
This poem is not neat as intact
petal veins, mysterious as garden
fossils.
The poem writes,
rises from ruminations, dried
flowers on my spine
bursting seeds.




Why you should join the river: Because having a notebook, or a blog, and a vow to write one small stone in it each day can help you keep a sense of wonder about the world. Deciding to take part in the July challenge, to notice something each day and write about it, sets in motion that willingness to reach out - that willingness to really look and listen to the world - and to stand in awe.
On the black river,
a pair of great-crested grebe nod
towards the ceremonies of spring.
Kate Noakes