In an attempt to be brief

here is a moment I felt truly alive:

when the wind-hurtled leaves convulsed

in the dirt and I caught the tang of turmoil in the air

as rain-soaked eyes and misty trees

all merged into one song.


forget the malleability of flesh

‘twas brave, the woman
who wandered up a winding path of
crispy leaves
toward a glowing distant peak.
and as her gaze
took in the lowering
of the sun she felt a shiver scuttle
up her spine, not
for fear of darkness or
of solitude,
but for the unrelenting cold that creeps
with dusk’s farewell
into her bones and lingers
long past dawn, a thorough chill
in which she steeps until-
the malleability of flesh, the stinging tingle
that accompanies heat-
she neglects to move at all,
and curls instead into a ball
at the foot of a quaking aspen tree,
where she sinks into
the wilderness;
forever alone and finally free.


Frog Noses

Mommy holds
my hand
very tight
asks something about a ‘prognosis’
makes me think of frog noses
I giggle, she squeezes, brows
furrowed. I bite my lip.

Later, licking swirly soft serve in a race
against the hot hot heat, she stares
over my shoulder
fist tucked
under her chin, her spoon
forgotten halfway to her mouth.

I want to tell her
she’s dripping on the table-
she hates when things are messy-
but I keep quiet, scared
of her sighs, of the silence
and of her empty eyes.

How to prepare for the Future:

Collect the pebbles of guilt
of resentment
of fear and loss and toss
them over your shoulder
let them scatter
behind you

consider the inevitability of failure
pull the warmth of motivation tight across your torso
take a step

sink trust into your bones
infuse your blood with devotion, introduce
humility to the echoes
of voices that vibrate softly at your core until
your own words rise
above the hum
ready to attempt, to risk, to ask and to insist.


2014-02-22 15.14.16-1

despite best intentions

I’ve been confusing the white blossoms
of spring with branches burdened
with snow. I remind myself this
is the season for change, not
hibernation, but still I cringe
when I glimpse your shadow
in her smile and translate the shape of those lips
into transactions made in my absence.

I’ve been mistaking petals
for snowflakes, but believe
me when I say I won’t misplace
the memories of this
singing bowl whose voice
reverberates through my
bones when it rests
in my hands, vibrations reminiscent
of a promise, a (com)promise that clings to
lungs like drops
of condensation.