Two Exit a Poem

we walked apart, for the most part,
rarely hand in hand,
in separate lanes, using different guides,
only one foot of four
ever touching the ground,
making it odd
that we step on each other’s toes
when we never danced closely.

we never danced closely.

Cute, Cute, Cute

I painted my toenails green today,

cute, cute, cute, I am, but

I might have

thought myself ridiculous

as recently as last year.

Today, I am the darling of the forest,

an adorable sprite,

a magically delicious green,

and cute, cute, cute.


The ocean’s breath
becomes my own,

the tide reaches
and withdraws.
The end will come,
for certain,
it will come.

The beginning,
now? or soon?



Begin again

When Waters Still

When waters still,

safe harbors

and I expand to fit the view
alongside those once drowning,

the recognized, and the forgotten,
who mirror me, and I them,

some salvaged souls,
granted a foothold in Grace

by waters stilled.

Grief is a privilege
and a promise.

I am become.

It is Calving Season

It is calving season

on the glacial field,

with groaning, writhing,

and violent births.

How massive, spectacular, and horrible.

it is

when landscapes are altered

by newborn weight,

releasing floods,

that drown

fault lines, failed lines,

sons and daughters

of the living God,

witnesses to

calving season

on the glacial field.

How massive, spectacular, and horrible

it is.

Mildewed Metaphors

flowers and snow drifts,
the sun and the moon,
mildewing metaphors
for heart and grave,
irresistible to poets,
shameless scribes that we be
for timeless reassurance.
Please, read them
to me.

My Hands Smell of Firewood

My hands smell of firewood,
having fanned weak flames since dawn,
whipping smoldering embers into a blaze
that fails. Gone. It is gone.
It is gone.

Light on the Water

Light on the water

illumines forevers,

the blessed knowing

more follows this moment.

The Shadow We Cast


I am Watching a Small Flying Insect

I am watching a small flying insect
trapped inside my house.
Confused and clumsy,
he searches for sign posts,

reasoning his whereabouts
through large panes of glass.

Spotting the place from which
he became airborn,
piloting a freedom,
now suddenly withdrawn,

a complex presence,
for whom I open a door

and grant the whole outside.
While I wait for a thank you,
he bites me, you know.
I am the reason he flies.

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