#shelter
11.20.19 - PSA to get out of the house and volunteer at your local shelters.
My unpopular opinion is the fact that people (not all) who get pets, get young animals (like puppies or kittens), while they can get an adult one from the shelter and give them a second chance in life. I know young animals are cute ‘n all and they also have a right on a good life, but it’s sad to know that there are many other pets who already had an ugly life and don’t get a go to live their remaining years in a warm house with loving people.
That just had to get out of my thoughts, I don’t mean to insult anyone with this. I just see a lot of youtubers adopting puppies and such and I feel like it’s sad for the remaining animals, like the ones who don’t even get looked at twice because of thair age. It’s sad.
Hi!
As fortunate as it is unfortunate, not much has changed.
I am still in good health, at least physically. A really big part of me wants to get out of the country, not even just for safety but also to be able to do some work. Mom doesn’t want to leave at all though, and I don’t think I should leave her alone or with just the pets.
So it is what it is for now. I really hope there will be some progress soon. I would love to go home, but I have no idea what home looks like, if there even still is a home, a gym, anything. But I am ready to help rebuild everything. The wait just adds to the dreadfulness.
Thank you very much for the continuous love, the support, the prayers. Rest assured that it all helps a lot! Just a little less worrying would be very much appreciated though, as it doesn’t help when feeling and being safe. Know that I am and will be alright.
We dangle on the laced
rope of a hammock, my rhubarb bra flicks
over the birch branch, prints the whole lawn
flush pink. We are inside a star.
We are dust. Your look is granular,
whistles gather me.
I am dancing
flush and light. There are s sounds
in all the words without them.
We roast apples on a fire
made of beach glass.
We sleep without a roof.
The hammock rope is damp still
with morning cloud. The hummingbird croons
a tale of open lids, honeybees, wake, honey,
wake. We come and core ourselves
like a story. We are apple-cherry
and culled. This is the beginning
and the end is seedling, long like blue
in distance. It is after now.
We understand time like tea.
Your palms yawn, sing we are moth-eaten
and dirtied from all the hours in the flower
beds—
I tell you I am afraid of wholeness
and also not being whole,
and the earth turns to opal salt.
We watch and imagine the things you will gift
me laid on a cedar plank:
talc poems, spiced corn chips, two sawlog
wheels with honeysuckle spokes, a slate blue
voice, all the craters
you know on the moons of Mars
in diametrical order,
a map of shelter you call a constellation,
it dances slow, you whistle.
The onions in Maine bloom pink flowers.