Somebody asked me the other day, “What do you study?”
I told them, “Life.”

Life collects
in piles
in stacks of smells
in stains of memory
and crinkled photos
It collects
on the spine between the bones
like spiderwebs
It folds
catching sand in the creases
peeling up and leaving sticky
residue behind
It softens
your ice cream
stretches your jeans
and breaks in your shoes
It builds
in scraps of paper
collected shells
and textured walls

And every once in a while
the river takes a detour
and you trickle down the rocks
and settle into a little pond
You watch the butterflies kiss
the water
the elegant skidders stride
on their magnificent little paws
You talk to the wind
and listen
meditating on the bliss
that resides in the tadpole

Life is grown
life is in everything
in the trees
and the wind
in the water
Life trickles in
and gushes out
in the full moon surges
in the taste of blood
the ceremonial dance and burning

It needs oiled and waxed
plucked, groomed, and lotioned
it needs communication, projects
love
it needs the touch of the sun's
hand upon your shoulder
the red kiss upon your cheeks

It sleeps in tears of solitude
and naps in pains from laughter
It is in scrapes and burns and chipped paint
It is in leftovers and memorized recipes
old keys and tattered towels
It is carried in the body
in the pores of physical memories
It is woken in the sleep of a child
in morning lips and swollen eyes
It comes in cycles
it rejuvenates
it dies
It pulses and vibrates
to a specific tone
it's precision is mathematical
procession lyrical
connections undeniable
It tans and leathers
then returns back to the dust
back to La Pachamama