My collection of photo freewrites from 2020, All Land an Island/ All Blue the Sea, is now available in digital format. It’s available at the Blurb bookstore. Click here to get your copy!
https://www.blurb.com/ebooks/754267-all-land-an-island-all-blue-the-sea
March 2, 2021
Mr. Jack Goodman chose me less than two years ago and became a real buddy. I wrote most of my morning posts under his substantial weight and steady gaze. Yesterday he died suddenly and unexpectedly. His companionship will be greatly missed.
March 9, 2021
Would the city erupt in a blaring plea? Or would we all hover our hands, waiting for someone else to ask first?
March 15, 2021
Because there is no picture of what warm really is. The sun through the threads of my t-shirt (no coat). There is no picture of damp. The rise of sweat at the base of my neck beneath my hair (uncut). There are no words either.
Tomorrow I’ll leave my hands empty and walk down the street full of spring and say “what a gorgeous day” to a total of two people. It will be perfect.
March 17, 2021. I applaud the almost. Here and here and here, in the not-yet-congratulatory state of arrival. I celebrate the present participality of our days: breathing, waiting, blooming.
March 20, 2021
In the end, the fortress protected nothing and the sky saw everything and the ground was there all along, the reason for it all.
March 22, 2021
Served one shining world at a time. Still not enough to wet your throat
March 26, 2021
The walls swell with gratitude for the brief attention of a tagger. The painted lines of the parking lot grow desperate for purpose.
March 28, 2021
Yesterday’s noodles were stuck to the bowl. The cat’s dish was crusted with meat. Then a small, watery planet of bubbles, light and daphne appeared on the windowsill over the sink. I’d forgotten it was there.
March 30, 2021
The park is crowded with the eager and weary desperate for a glimpse of pink. The blooms further down the path are in full glory and everyone wants to be close. I pause further back, under the wide umbrella of my favorite cherry and feel the pre-show jitters of the early buds. The audience is at the door waiting to rush in.
April 1, 2021
No reluctance. No savoring. Only a loosening of one fold from another from another from another.
April 6, 2021
I’m not saying I want ferns to replace all lightbulbs, but it’s nice to see that they do sometimes.
April 7, 2021. We find newborns at the top of the sweet, dusty trail. Lupines covered in fuzz, too heavy to lift their heads.
April 8, 2021
This tree told me their ancestors were prehistoric beasts. And the church they live next was once a small, rough mountain. They were both carried here and tended to, more often than not. Home is a multitude.
April 11, 2021
I’ve always thought all orange fruit offered the same bland, stringy mess as the navel. What a world! To be 50 and fall in love with the perfect plump moons of the mandarin.
April 14, 2021
Yes, the blossoms’ ruffle. Yes, the wonder of a tree gone briefly pink. But also, the feel of petalonpetalonpetal cupped in a palm. Like custard on the tongue.
April 18, 2021
There must be some cell parts in me that glow this same magnetic green. I walk beneath these trees and immediately my hands raise. All the buried joy pulls skyward.
April 19, 2021
A piano teacher once lived in the tiny space of our back room. Her clothes hung over the toilet and an electric keyboard sat just inside the door. Sometimes, while getting a snack from the fridge, I’d hear children grasping at music, one clunky note at a time. Now, the woman lives in Europe(is it Spain? Ireland?) and I dig the weeds from my long-neglected yard. I find peanut shells everywhere buried in the dirt from when the piano teacher befriended all our backyard crows.
April 25, 2021
The city puts on its dress clothes, it’s fancy ball clothes, it’s date-night, birthday, prom clothes. We stand nearby, not quite together, unsure how (or if) to join the party.
April 26, 2021. One giant spring bouquet.
April 27, 2021. Down with a fire on the beach. Up with the fisherfolk. Really good cake in between.
April 28, 2021. A few low-tide treasures before I take a break from social media (specifically) and my phone (in general). My eyes are tired. My heart is too.
Tracy Burkholder 
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