Months Upon Months


It’s been many months upon months
Since I last saw the light of day
Felt the wind of spring blow into the swell of my lungs
It was so long ago that I’m not quite sure that reality exists anymore.


It’s cold and damp
When I look around
There’s only the mud and the muck to be touched.


I know where I am.



Six Feet Deep
Six Feet Under the surface of earth
And I know that my existence is
Not what it once was
All I can feel is the
Of my soul, of my hands and feet and brain and belief


Though somehow in the depths of this empty and dense space
I can see the seeds of trees
Which die
Before they hurl themselves forward in rich, trunky stature



It was the slash and burning
Of the gardener king that brought me
Into this heap of ash


Intentional and Methodical he cut me
Down and lit me on fire
To watch me burn


Down into the ground.


Down into the ground
It was where I planted my roots and stretched out my limbs
Reaching for a semblance of life
And in death is where I found it.


It’s been months upon months
that I’ve lied here wondering
when it’d finally be my turn
to break through that dirt…



As the days grew closer together
The whispers of seeds of trees became
Louder and louder
Their voices nearly audible, intelligible.


It was under the dirt and fog and rust
And decomposition
That I encountered the living.
I could see them through the ash and
I wished to know how I could reach them;
To touch them tangibly
With my calloused fingers,
As if somehow in touching I might come back to life.


As I watched them breathe
I wondered when I would feel the wind in my own lungs again.
When life would come back to me in that
Familiar yet distant rush sweetly singing
Anything is possible.


It was today I realized that
This is it
The day I’d been waiting for
Months upon months
When I’d finally take in
the crashing, rolling waves of light and wind and life
when it’d hit me like the greeting of a long-lost friend
Approaching from the distance
then suddenly appearing before you


Until today
I was never quite able to distinguish
The voices of my dying friends
Who for so long quietly murmured


Today I finished the book WILD,
One of the best and most vividly emotional novels I’ve ever read,
Symbolically I traveled with her through
An excruciatingly beautiful journey where she seemed to walk through death
In order to come to life,
And she did.


Today – the culmination of struggle and fog and death under the dirt –
It’s spring and it’s my turn.
I’ve drunk to the brim the overwhelm and the burden
I’ve sucked them down into my marrow the way a plant sucks up life from the death around it
And I’ve come up from that earth which held me for months upon months and months it seemed,

Finally raised from the grave – so convinced I was to be promised of this – and the breath of God has found its way into my lungs again.




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