The Secret World of the Flowers

Walking in this secret garden,

all the trees and hedges appear still.

The greens and yellows and less frequent browns and reds,

await the sun’s delightful morning grace.

Everything chirps at once.

In this stillness, I sit and think of you.

Light hits flowers in the distance and dew drops off of a gently hanging leaf.

A delicate stream flows by in circles, eventually meeting the ocean.

A red robin redbreast perches itself on a nearby branch.

The sky looks infinite in its beauty.

I bow to the earth before me, knowing you’ll return

and that the flowers will bloom in your delightful presence.


A Song From the Bottom

” Love is a tree with branches reaching into eternity and roots set deep in eternity, and no trunk” – Rumi

Waiting is a part I never wanted.
Your eyes are hazel, and your hair holds on
like my hand, which screams alongside the bed.

When you empty your heart, I fill the yard.
When you wear your green hat, I ask for more.

A night without you could make all of the
trees disappear and the chairs,
and the bed, and my shoes.
Without you, this house only knows how to die.

I have to come home and you have to leave.
I have to rest and the birds must sing
a casual dirge on the windowsill.

this day

This day is the only day.

The sun rises and sets

but its just an  illusion.

When I speak with you,

I am not speaking with anyone.

I fly in and out of dreams like a


high on the clouds.

The moon peeks and

waxes and wanes.

It’s all imaginary,

You and I.

The idea of self.

Sometimes you hold on to yourself,

thinking that you will lose yourself,

afraid that life will disappear if you lose yourself.

It’s time.

Time to let go of this strength

it’s not making you strong.

I don’t give a damn if you think you know something

there is nothing that you could know.

This is not just you.

This isn’t about you.

This is truth.


Anger is your anger. You created it.

For you.

But, this isn’t about you.


Sometimes we shine the mirror of the self

and work on a reflection,

like a piece of crafted glass.

There is not a more perfected vase

than one that is broken.

nothing but this negligee.

I want to be a slow breather,

where the air enters my lungs
and fills each gap and then slowly exists.

Black is the color of my hair.

I feel like I am drowning when I see you.
Should I feel like I am drowning when I see you?
Is that what it should feel like?
I hope you are around
when my face is white
and airless;
and my lips are red and
filled with strawberry jam.
Maybe I could go back to the beginning
of it all,
to that first day.

Maybe I can drown here in this white porcelain tub.
I don’t need any water.
I am wearing
nothing but this
white- lace negligee.
It clings to my body and
doesn’t know the meaning of

Slam the door in my face, please.

Look deep into the face of this poisonous, cunning snake.

Ask me if I know how to kiss you.

Ask me if I can see you

With anyone else.


Slam the door in my face,

I don’t give a damn.

You are hollow tree.


You are like these shelves.

Do you know how to patch my mind?

Dear brother,

turn your cheek from

This gate.


Don’t ask me if you can get out of here.

There is nowhere to go.


This is the bottom.

Ask me if this is the bottom.


Did you think of it yet?

I know you are barely moving.

You are slow mover

And I am



Write me

When you feel a little better and

know you will never die.

Xo, Ash