you can tell a lot about a man by his handwriting
you can find words unspoken by looking another woman in the eye
but both of these things are hard to come by

if i put on my grandfather's glasses, will i be able to see you better?

oh, tell me a story, of broken bikes and late-night jasmine
we'll sit in sand, hold wine in paper cups, and i'll listen

i'll learn to listen.


bring out your rake and hoe again,
ready your shovel for sowing season
we'll work all morning, or dream of it at least.

and when our shadows lengthen in the afternoon,
i'll pour you a sierra, we'll sit on front steps.

oh, it's been many years since easter eggs were hidden for our sakes
(but maybe if we just close our eyes a little tighter)

you are not being so clear with me
(but i can't say i hold it against you)
unfamiliar forests are still green
there is world enough, and time.


you burn right through my palms

what wisdom costs, we'll pay in pennies
but we'll pay, oh, we'll pay

when so much air conditioning has left wind meaningless
and grief has no place because suffering can't reach us

i'll pick lupins every morning though it may be scorned naive
i'll plant wildflowers in concrete jungles & i'll let tears fall over forgotten things

prophets are no stranger to sackcloth & ashes
and i'm not saying i'm a prophet (oh no),
i just want to tell the truth.


[you] stood too close to the sunset

Yes, yes, ridiculous, but fun. Even held at the Maritime Museum (with a sea theme)! It was Sadie Hawkins, so I asked this one.


feather / page france

you stood too close to the sunset
and it finally outgrew you
so now i paint you on my doorpost
like i knew you

i make all of the right noises
but my love they go right through you
i'm as heavy as a feather

...and we will rejoice


the alphabet of grace / frederick buechener

"Maybe the creature under the tree has just been told that if he wants to live, first he has to die, and his mouth is wrenched open with what may be either a roar of great laughter or a wail of despair. What it costs to be a man, he is told, is everything he's got. To be rich, he must be willing to spend himself down to the last nickel. To be happy, he must be willing to let his heart break. To be blessed, he must be willing to live like a damned fool--giving not getting, losing not winning, reaching out into the night for a hand that's not there, dancing a dance that clack-clack is the only music to. The creature under the trees laughs very much like hell or cries like a banshee because of course this is all precisely and definitively what he can neither do nor be. He is not a man; he is a walrus. He is not a hero; he is a pig. His legs are broken."