thoughts travel without passports or permission;
love cannot be contained in the human body,
so it now grows in the oak trunk of an endless tree.
time threads us together in loose, haphazard seams;
dreams contain all my greatest fears and fantasies,
so now I plant them in the mulch beneath tall grasses to grow mushrooms.
joy holds our hands or steps on our feet;
sadness escapes the container of the human heart,
so I let it spill from my eyes until before me is a clear stream.
life is the battle I only win if everything before its loss was meaningful;
the oak trees, mushrooms, and stream do not stay contained,
so the forest blooms and expands.