Dec 13 2014

the sentinel of silence

A foot of snow this week as a tease for what lies ahead. Shoveling and roof-raking and admiring the magic that always comes with gently falling flakes and morning sunshine sparkle.

A white blanket of silence to cover all the ugliness, the grey, the mud of life, making it beautiful once again, at least on the surface.

Sometimes, skin deep is just enough to console you, just enough to make you smile little smiles, just enough to show you that hope is always waiting in the wings.

And life is always there , somewhere, even if you can’t see the green of grass and the pink of rose, it’s there.

Loss and regret swirl around my head as I move through the grief of an old friend’s death, a sweet soul the same age as me, far too young to be taken.

Everything looks different now.

There is so much silence.

This rabbit sits by my door, watching it all, offering no words of wisdom. But it’s okay, I don’t need words, his presence is enough.

The sky folds down around us and we wait.

Each snowflake, each life, each morning, unique and transient and lovely.

The wind howls.




Apr 29 2014

staring down
the slope of silence

all the words you leave
surmised unsaid
will grow wings of weight
forced to cower behind
the lace of an albatross curtain

held by
pursed parched lips
and a fissured fish heart
from a sky that knows only
blind patience

this is your charity necklace
worth only the gold
of your final sunrise
and your bottled up notes
of forgiveness

if you want them
to fly
you must sing



A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.
Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.




Feb 27 2014


I believe in spring flowers on the kitchen table.

I believe the moon knows all the world’s secrets,
and if you listen, she’ll whisper to you in your sleep.

I believe cardinals were sent to keep color alive during winter.

I believe ghosts are the physical manifestation of hope.

I believe gardens are the very same thing.

I believe there are 56 days in February,
but every calendar is missing a page.

I believe mountains are the keeper of silence.

I believe there are 9,837 different kinds of love,
each one a leaf on the deciduous tree of life.

I believe music is the wind, whispering through those leaves.

I believe in messes, beautiful, beautiful messes.

I believe snowflakes are the only form of perfection.

I believe light makes us grow, but darkness keeps us sane.

I believe forests remember
every person they’ve ever encountered.

I believe words are the oldest religion.

I believe north is the strongest direction.

I believe we are all in this together,
most especially those who stand alone.

I believe birds were the world’s first poets.

I believe in spring.



Feb 13 2014

a shot in the dark

It’s been a week of up before dawn and in bed long after dusk. A week of work and work and work and taking care of the business of life. A week much like any other when it comes right down to it.

Winter holds us in its darkness, frigid cold, frozen. We build fires and bundle up and complain. Being able to complain is the blessing, though one that hides itself in bitter words and false lament.

In between all this work and this complaining and this living, I write.

Like a fool that cannot stop herself, I give up sleep and precious hours in exchange for words. Words that slide from my fingers just as clearly as if they’d been spoken.

Words that light up the night, keep me company, guide me along the dark corridor of February.

That’s what writing always is, isn’t it? A shot in the dark.

And you never stop being afraid that you’ll miss, or even worse, you’ll hit an artery, a vital organ.

But laying down your weapon is never an option. Surrender only comes when the words have filled the page.

And there is always another page, always words pressing down on some inner, bleeding wound. The perfect bandage.

It’s cold and it’s dark and I let the words flow. Even when I’m not writing, they course through my mind in tune with the beat of my heart.

My telltale heart. Always, I let it speak.

I listen to the whispers.

You never know what ghosts they will reveal.



Dec 4 2013

reverb13: day 4


This post is part of Reverb 13:

Day 4: What have you lost, what are you grieving?


I sit in the dark of very early morning, pondering this question.

The truth is, I feel I have no right to answer.

The truth is, I feel blessed by the fact that I’ve lost so little. That I have so much.

Not material things, because the truth is, that is not at all where my wealth lies. When it comes to things, I have very little.

But when it comes to life, I am decidedly rich.

The truth is, I’ve yet to experience the kind of earth-shattering loss that will make me grieve for years. There have been a few bumps along the road, friends, and pets that I loved, truly. But all the people I am closest to, all the people I hold close in my heart are still here, in my life.

I could talk about other things I’ve lost, things like time and youth and innocence. But, no matter.

The truth is I am so glad to be here in this life, so happy to be alive, so in love with the beautiful mess that surrounds me, that I have no time to grieve small losses.

I know that someday, this will change. Someday my heart will be broken in ways I can only imagine. Someday there will be devastating losses. This is a truth I cannot escape.

But today, just now, I can only sit here in this chair, in front of this dark window facing east and wait for the sun to rise on another day, a perfectly boring ordinary day that I will do my best to cherish.

Today, just now, I’ve lost little. Regret almost nothing.

I am here.

And I will make that be enough.

In fact, it will be everything.


Jul 23 2013

stained glass

pretty pictures
telling prism stories
and so much gets lost
in lead and separation

everything you see
is colored
by comparison

complement and

pattern and shade

rendition and

you have to listen

the wind
seeps in
between pane
and crack

the truth
is always
in the whispers





Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night join us!

Jun 29 2013

dance with the ghosts
of tomorrow


with the wind in your hair

and a song in your heart

and love on the tips

of your fingers



Jun 27 2013

the summer of small things

Sometimes, life just gets away from you. And after a while, you stop fighting it and just let it flail away, knowing that at some point, things will settle down again, however briefly.

Time starts to feel like the enemy, and that’s just silly. It is, after all, just time, the caretaker of life, and it has no ulterior motives. We are always running after it, running out of it, trying to squeeze a little extra from it.

And time just sits there, grinning with a cheshire cat smile.

It’s only the moment, the one you’re in right now (the one that just passed while you read the word now) that matters.

And it is so easy to forget this while you race towards the finish line.

There is no prize for getting there first. No prize for failing to notice the sun streaming through the trees, the child’s smile, the kind word. Those are the gifts that keep you going.

It’s hard, sometimes, to look away from the goal and take in the small things. Or we simply forget in our hurry to get where we think we are going. (Which will just be a new version of now.)

All of this to say that the other night I sat outside for a few hours and did nothing. Absolutely nothing. On purpose. I just watched and listened and inhaled and exhaled and took it all in. Life.

I’ve accomplished many things in the last month. A long, long list of things that had to be done. But in another month, the only part I will remember will be those few hours.

And as I sat there, quite suddenly, it became the summer of small things.

It won’t be the summer I might wish for, filled with long, lazy afternoons on a quilt with a book. But I will carve out moments to remember, even in the tangled mess of life’s jungle.

I will seek out the heart. Because even time has one, if you know where to look.

Here. Now.

See it?



Jun 20 2013

there, in ethereal

My favorite scrabble move of all time was making the word ethereal from the existing word on the board, there.

There is in ethereal, always. And we are always there. Which is the same as here. There, and everywhere.

Or something like that.

Life has kept me very busy lately, and I am missing my writing time, my garden time, my reading time. But it’s okay, because in a small sense I am always there, in one of those places.

At least in my mind, my heart, my dreams.

So there.


Jun 13 2013

our lady of the forest

after a while, you get used to chaos

hunched up shoulders and a crick in your neck
become the norm

while time plays no tricks
but marches on around the corner

and then you start stealing moments
gathering them up on the sly for hoarding
in a crackled lightning bug jar

so you can see them after dark

the red cardinal feeding his mate
these roses spilling blooms like confetti
this mirror that is always too honest

languish becomes a lost word
a distant memory

the life you imagined becomes
the one you are living
in stolen snippets of illumination

your heart keeps right on beating
you dance beneath the same yellow moon
you fight your way through another nightmare
to see the sun split wide the horizon

you survive

and one afternoon
you hear yourself