I went to a 'mindfulness and writing' workshop today, hosted by someone else.

We sat, walked, lay, breathed, and then wrote. 

-

leaves no longer grow

but water still trickles through

branches, feeding moss

-

she could hear

the creature moving itself into place.

it had come to take walls from their homes. 

she could hear

its expectations in her mind, 

much louder than any thoughts she had

but she still had thoughts. 

she thought about where they would live

and whether the babies would sleep or cry

under the stars, amongst

the blue fields of concrete dust

falling like stars,

swirling like galaxies away  from 

soft warm mouths. 

she thought about water

and where they would find it.

she could hear the water in their sleep

much more than in their cries. 

later they would drink the sound of rubber melting

and grow that way. 

they would eat with each other

bitterly or sweetly. 

they would fold the shapes 

of houses with their hands, 

and passers-by throw money

thinking the shadows were birds

that carried the seed

of the native tree.


(I don't like this poem. It's just a series of gestures.)