I swept a butterfly net through the jungles
of my soul, and pinned up what I found there,

the colors from the canopies and brush, a collage of all things holy.
Moss-covered fantasies, dry-rotted dreams
lie in peace beneath weeping willow pages crossed with blue lines,
and their memory is consecrated land.
The papers’ rustle echoes laughter
Wrung out tears drop, and fall, shine
gleaming onto words set down as time moved on without them.
I’m lost and discovered and mapped up and
Chronicled, sliced up and slide-ruled
In there.
My pen leaked my heart out, left
pigment footprints tracking ways through strange mazes that I wish to
walk again. Magic moments leap and trill like cockatoos and I can’t forget
what I used to believe in. Life is
sacred
and this journal holds mine.