Dear me. [day 30]

You are sometimes quite ridiculous
in these pursuits of yours;
your whimful half-baked ideas
are like embers in your mouth
that burn and burn and burn,
and are quenched by your own
saliva.  So I hope you never
forget this, this glowing coal you did
succeed in swallowing whole
(though with much coughing and gagging).

Call yourself empty, but
as you know, emptiness
is white cloths, flapping in the wind,
and there is always a garden
behind the white cloths
and a copse of trees
and birds and bunnies
and snakes and drakes
and squirrels. And dirt.
Good, wholesome
dirt.

So, dear me,
wear this on your chest with pride.
And let yourself be happy
for these words
were yours.