Lessons

Life will teach you hard,

so I will teach you softness—

the touch of a gentle finger

on your flushed cheeks,

a tender head rub,

soft kisses,

being held safely in the crook of an arm.

Life will show you the rough edges—

a rock in your shoe, litter in a stream,

heartbreak, a biting word,

the sudden loss of a friend,

a broken bone.

I will show you warm tea in a rainstorm,

the comfort of a great book before bed,

a field of wildflowers,

the sound of wind chimes,

the magic of a bird’s nest.

The world will reveal itself to be

both beauty and tragedy,

and you will know pain.

So for now, while I can keep you close,

I’ll teach you lullabies and dancing,

bubble baths and make-believe,

snuggles and laughter,

and all the softness in between.

The Yellow Blooms

of my childhood

were spontaneous and bright

like my mother.

She pointed them out each day on the way to school:

for-syth-i-a

she whispered,

like the words of a spell

passed on between

generations of women.

It took me years to remember it

but now it’s etched in my mind like a scar.

Today my mother sits beside me, asleep in the

pew while

the Poet Laureate recites a poem

about forsythias.

I reach for my mothers’ hand,

a delicate blossom,

and whisper,

thank you.

Revelation

I saw the face of god

and She was color and light.

I was held in the arms of god

and felt safe and content.

I heart the voice of god

and knew truth and beauty.

I connected to the source of god

and discovered She was Me.

Grounded

Suddenly I realized

the words bring me back

into myself—

to the foundational space

of knowing.

It is in the poems

I find her, plain as day,

where she has always been.

Citrus

how closely death and life exist. I finally watched the documentary you recommended, and it said funghi float in the air, invisible. that we inhale decay every day, mixed right in with the breath that gives us life. where one ends, the other begins: a circle, an eternal cycle. each child abused might one day become a healer. for every grove cut down, elsewhere gardens are planted. with time, our painful memories smooth into treasures we tuck away inside of us, gifts we harness to survive. suddenly our suffering becomes our strength, our bridge to some truer space. the tree’s roots dig deeper after the hurricane, ready for the next storm. we learn to love our losses, understand their upside. the bruise we thought would never heal eventually fades to be our beauty. our heartbreak is the bedrock of greater love, our grief a well for creativity. we realize that the foundation of life is not joy, but something much more bittersweet. the lemons rot in the bowl and we toss them behind the shed. years later, a citrus tree. 🍋

Maine

Those cold nights 

biking home in the dark,

the stars were gems 

bright enough to slice through 

the belly of the sky.

I remember so many sleeps

tucked into bedding

that never got the job done.

We lit candles

to bring some semblance of cozy 

to those frozen rooms,

squirrels hibernating in the walls.

Home was in shared books,

the edges of their pages

torn and yellowed from busy fingers,

or in kneaded bread,

or in a harmonica’s croon.

The snow colored our days stark.

We ate ‘til our stomachs were full 

and sipped tea to warm our insides.

But even all of that couldn’t bring Spring.

Only patience, some solitary days 

and

conversations held

lying on wool blankets,

wondering aloud if those stars 

mark the limits of what we are.

Transcend

Here I am 

In this soft space. 

The plumage of a dove 

So tender and divine. 

Morning light. 

My favorite folk lullabies. 

Your beautiful hands. 

Our bodies curled around one another, 

A cocoon of trust.

I drift back to lake dreams

Mist rising like one thousand souls 

Finally at peace.

Antidote to Loneliness

If there is one

I haven’t found it yet. Or maybe

I’m not the right patient. I’ve quit

too many book clubs and team sports

along the way, preferring

my nook with the small lamp,

my journal and a bowl of olives.

I remember the postcard you sent

from Sardinia, of the coast

and all its blue. There was a ledge

with two chairs and I thought,

how beautiful. The white of the building,

with the cerulean sea. And

a single bird, flying high,

a scribble in the sky.

Falling

Out of bed

Onto earth

Into life

Through the roof

Through the clouds

Falling

Letting go

Letting in

Giving in

Letting happen

Allowing to be

Just be

Falling

For you

Into practice

Letting it take me

Letting you have me

Falling

Unlocking the grip

Allowing the process

Permitting

Just letting go

Detached

Unhinged

Falling

Free

Pro-Life?

my heartbeat

is all I can hear

of myself

as I imagine

all the women

forced to give birth, and

all the lives

lost senselessly because of

all the men

who believe

they have the right

to decide

whose heart beats.

Troves

The box of letters 

we keep in the closet by the guest room. 

Or the 23 journals I’ve penned 

full of laughter and angst.  

And, more quietly, 

the memories of that summer at camp. 

The ticket stubs from those shows 

when we felt meaning in our bones. 

A study-abroad romance. 

A lost friends’ beautiful laugh. 

The words left unsaid. 

Evolution

Eventually remembering turned into imagining. 

How slight the difference was between the two.

Powder

Alone in the mountains

Snow covers all,

Silence: even the squirrel’s soft hop unheard.

I whistle.

White mounds descend from tree limbs

Landing solid as a sad thought.

I heard you in these woods some time ago,

Your sweet call my comfort.

But now, looking for your footsteps,

finding none,

I wonder if you were ever here at all.

Twins

My swollen belly 

Is a field, 

The grounds for a harvest. 

Two strawberries grow 

Side by side 

Ripening with every heartbeat.

Present

What is this morning gift of you 

and how do I deserve 

to wake up to a warm bundle 

of pure love smiling back at me? 

When did I earn the right 

to hold you close to me, 

feel your ocean wave breathing 

against my chest, 

stroke your peach fuzz head,

kiss your apple cheeks? 

The birds are chirping 

their morning song 

and I am convinced that heaven 

is a place on earth, 

and I’ve somehow been let through 

the pearly gates.

I find myself 

bargaining with the Source, begging

to remain in this place 

that so vividly reveals 

the Purpose of it all. 

The Ache

It’s so hard to pinpoint.

It’s no single person, or thing, or place

but a Knowing.

And the Truth sprinkled everywhere:

Sunrises and Starlight.

Holding your hand. 

The Ocean.

Letters from an old friend.

It’s Connection

to the Center of things, the Essence.

A favorite song.

Fire.

A walk in the woods.

That memory of seeing you for the first time.

Life’s most beautiful moments

are somewhere in these tender places 

when we want to cry and smile

at the same time.

Driving.

Snowfall.

Animals.

Forgiveness.

Hoping for and missing 

Everything at once

and Nothing at all.

Ashes

everything bright is something burned. 

the ashes are memories 

that paint our fingers black.

what once was is no longer.

we wonder when 

the beginning became 

the end. 

Summer Garden

It’s been so hot these past weeks — 

Too much sunlight and not enough water.

Everything in the garden is wilting. 

The roses have starved, 

the gardenias turning their deep,

fragrant yellow

that lends death a sweetness.

Bee carcasses litter the yard

Little striped bodies in the fetal position 

As if ducking for cover.  

I wonder what they feel before their wings fail

— do they know the end is coming? 

Do they elect one last blossom to visit? 

Or, like flowers,

does the world slowly strip the living away 

so that all is left are fallen petals 

Or, in this case, broken wings?

Birthday

I am learning to love

the process.

There is nothing else.

Just the onion peeling back,

sun-shriveled and dying

until a sprout peeks through its layers

and suddenly, death is just rebirth.

I embrace it all:

The sunsets and moon rises,

The tears that flow so easily

That dry on cheeks

and leave flushed ears.

There’s a glisten in your eye,

your arms around me.

I feel your heart through your shirt

and your breath is alive.

There is no direction here.

No getting closer. No destination.

These years roll on,

green and blurred like country roads.

Keep this playlist on.

I tap my foot to the rhythms.

Often I sing along.

Relative

The lines on my hands tell a story

I’m surprised to be reading.

Not of old age, but time, you know?

It’s crept up on me like a long lost relative

who is not just here for the weekend.

I’m not afraid of death — not really.

But I am terrified of withering

like a flower left out in the sun — cut off

and not even feeding the bees.