stargazers in furious
bloom – vanilla air –
are the only flowers
that trust me, tell me
i am not hopeless;
the juice in their veins, the way
they gulp the sun and meet my face,
their beauty and their business
say i don’t need a green thumb
and the riotous garden.
all one needs is a singular love.
Birdless sky swells grey blue against
trees that stand like brushes
stiff in the cold
The penultimate breath
of a new earth
The dark disappears in a steadfast
philanthropy of color: red, orange, rose
blush up from the land over lakes and hills
and roof slats to tell the inhabitants
Night has not prevailed.
Earth e x h a l e s
as the Sun spills her promise.
we felt so grown up
when we were kids
and now wonder that
we are so old when
we're not yet grown
we started losing
our parents to
time and frailty.
in the cycle of life
things go upside
d o w n
into a world
above the logic of sorrow
and find you are so
small, but remember:
Mom's high ceiling,
your sure ground.
see the sky and trees
in your pool of tears
they're the other side
of life. how beautiful
things are when they drown
how clear it is underwater.
you long to run
to the garden
beyond that door
but you don't fit
life would feel deformed
under the weight of loss
if it weren't for the faith
that was bigger than the
life that shut down
she archived her fears and
hopes in her kids, did
anyone hear the story
in between, did
your heirloom assurance
the midnight of your dreams
is really a new day.
for HJ &
who would like it
full of song
full of reverie
under our weight and i
smell like roses.
Write your own here.
If I could I would gather all the words
from the wild, pick them like berries
and press them into these pages to
bleed them, beautiful, into my notebook
I would chase syllable streams that
refresh dry banks and stop. at the quarry
where I will cut confused hands on stone,
going through the ruins of my
dreams and I will bottle my cries to
pour over the altar of my art
If I could I would answer the laughter
in the wind, unravel the rhetoric of the rain,
and walking dirt and gravel transcribe
the vernacular of city streets
I would record every note of joy from children
and undo the silence of grandmothers,
ask them about dogged hope
I would keep on west of my despair,
right through the dying sun and spell
the sunrise as he lights land and sea
in the genius of resurrection.
this epicurean sea of wildflowers and opus
white blossoms stirs beneath a rising day
she spills seminal secrets as the bees and
winds drive pollen grains and promise past
the velvet parting into stigma and style
with the marksmanship of knowing.
this field, voluminous womb, awash with prose
drinks the sun that climaxes overhead. a rain
of white sapphire upon silken spires that
indemnifies last night’s shower,
and the dandelion memories too much
for me in the wind perish in a panoply of filaments
but here i lie on my earthen bed pregnant
with poetry, the story under stories of the grass,
translating the anatomy of nature’s mystery and
indulge myself upon this, my field of words.