It must have been about two years ago when I found an old postcard in a book. A sun-glare photograph, and on the back, the note was sprawled: “I’m writing like a chopper and flying low.” It inspired my phase of writing down words, slipping them in borrowed books, and returning them to the library. Hoping they would be found and needed. It was then, too, that I deemed Carl Phillip’s book The Rest of Love some of my favorite poetry pages.

It was about a week ago that I strolled through the library, realized an urgent need for more poetry in my life, spotted Carl Phillip’s poems on the shelf, and gathered them to re-read.

It was tonight as I was reading a poem to myself out-loud that I turned the page and there it was, clicking its toe on the sidewalk with a small smirk, waiting for me: a purple post-it note stuck to the page staunchly declaring in my own handwriting,

Some things fall apart so that other things can fall together.

An unintentional future letter to myself, an unexpected tree-house strung with Christmas lights in the middle of the woods. Found and needed.


I’ve been recently lost in frustrations of losing.

But today. Today I found my checkbook stuck to a roll of duck tape under my bed. I found my poetry tucked inside a packet of papers in my office from a grant writing seminar. I found circumstances that led to a long, enjoyable conversation with one of my clients, and I found the ability to make him laugh for the first time in the several weeks he’s been here. I found a bag of cheetos to fulfill a craving I’ve had for two days. I found some words to express a yellow moment I’ve been previously unable to describe.

And suddenly I feel my neck craning up over the crowd anticipating everything remaining for me to see.