The Needle Drop

I have a little bit of poetry for you all tonight. I wrote this in the summer of 2012, back when I was riding the highs and lows of my romantic attraction to a special friend and triathlon teammate. To my fellow bloggers, writers, and poets: I hope you all find something memorable and captivating in these lines.



Upon the first drop everything signals;

orchids and pine trees burst with soothing scents.

Watch the birds take flight with damp wings

up through the mid-October fog.


Our words become banter as sunshine blooms;

syllables coast and crack against tree bark.

Scrunch up in your down jacket

under the blanket of new mist.


Beside a fallen juniper birds chortle,

mimicking your youthful vocal inflections.

Kindle a flame from the first spark,

another iridescent star…

like our first time.


Old needles eddy beneath the river,

swirling gently around sacrosanct stones.

Cast out a line in faint defense

so our fingers can swim apart.


Upon the next drop you keep it at bay,

reminding us that we came for nature.

Palming the soft moss of each tree,

we feign perception of tomorrow’s aura.


We treaded in the black lake of self-doubt,

heartbeats cutting through the chill of stigma.

Now we take off our wool socks at first moisture —

and hope our shared seed still nurtures the soil.

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