Strawberries

For Ashley, my Jóga

This basket is for all the mornings we pushed our plans back & slept in a bit.

I’ve got a 20 for gas & a multi-stop trip plan. Get your farmer’s market scrips & Norah Jones CDs & My Blueberry Nights quotes & yesterday’s T’tu lavash ready. Get your song cycle demos & tell me how you think Steve Albini or Fiona Apple would have done the mix. Don't forget a lint roller for all the patio cats you’ll ruffle.

Another basket for all the unincorporated areas & street vendors I’ve yet to show you. S/O to my hometown for nursing me on fresas con leche & niño envuelto when every other sense made none. Remind me to stop quoting Wilco so much & just savor the moment. 

Apologies for always forgetting you’re gluten-free—I promise I'm listening.

This is grace for the farm workers who picked these strawberries. Thank you to my late-abuelo for showing me what love was, & to all DREAMers, whose light always goes understated. (amen.)

It is strange to think how fortunate, how wildly improbable it is that we're friends at all. Our propensities are of June beetles, hissing when prodded. The things haunting the edges of our vision aren't important here. The point being, I am myself when picnicking in bare grass, holding out this little red tripitaka to you.

Confession for my sake: I hear my voice in Tweedy's. Sometimes, if one could come back new, I imagine myself as moss nesting in the grouts of viaducts. I want my outgrowths to press against the wind’s standards. I want my green to meditate on its rasping. I believe more Wilco songs deserve to be called standards. [four more & we'll dig in.]

A long, long time from now, when I finally turn into moss, I’ll miss you.

This basket is for all the nights you put up with my hissing.

I said I knew what love was,

not how it worked. (cheers.)