Sister, I see your arms are trembling. Brother, I see your tears, your stone-set face, how this fire rattling in your bones, shut up no longer, has burned you in the telling.
Prayer for the Artist
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Poems
Midnight Thoughts
Midnight thoughts surround me, messy and monstrous, so I tread carefully. I slip between the forests built of whispers of words, searching for possibilities.
Spaceless Race
I run a race that no one can see, but too often I lag behind. I watch the leaves glide on the wind and wonder what it’s like to bide time. When I pause to take a breath, the wind shoves an unchecked task list into my clenched hand.
The Stars Are Singing
Earth, an infant of giant size, rocked gently by the ocean’s rise; calm, unpeopled, its surface lies. Above are spread the lightening skies with all the joy of the planets ringing; together the morning stars are singing.
The Idea of Flowers
Each bee that’s crystalline with spring’s golden frost (each filament gleaming with the idea of flowers) carries with it the possibility of true abundance—the hope of things not yet seen by the manifold eyes of the wild world.
Mosaic
They say these years are where you find yourself—but mind yourself, they don’t tell you where to look. I tried to search in mirrors, but I fear they seem far fiercer when scattered scars and freckles are the only baited hooks. I’ve watched the windows of my soul to catch a glimpse beyond their gates, but the eyes that watched me back were quick to bicker and deceive.
The Man Who Lives a Few Roads Down
I know his face, I know his frown, the man who lives a few roads down. His walk didn’t change, though he grew older; his bent back and hunched shoulders.
Fearful Wonders
I am fearfully made in this garden of wonders where sun dapples down upon bench and bed, upon creeper and crocus, with shoots lancing quickly up, defiant through dampened earth.
Red Ink
In case you’ve ever wondered what goes on in an editor’s brain, her desire to conquer syntax can cause an awful strain. A typo, a misspelling, a hyphen out of place will etch a deep, deep crease upon an editor’s face.
If You Say I’m Your Daughter
If You say I’m Your daughter, why do I so utterly defenseless seem to be against all storms afire in the sky, against all hurricanes that stir the sea?
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