Go Back to the Woods

The entire city must be well fed
fast asleep on foot with eyes open
or listening to a drum beat from mars,
or living in an imaginary town where
“I” is in too frequent of use,
or maybe their silk is so fine
they think it turned them invisible —
even from behind the wheel.

The thing is
at times, I forget who I am

and that’s because you make me want to
whack my shoulder into yours while passing,
or dive through an open door that closes in your face,
or smash my car into the rear of yours because
you cut me off and I had to swerve into the other lane.

In the Small Hours of the Morning

grass rises from under the earth,
leaves bloom at the base of flowers,
trees burst greenly beneath a blue powder fog at dawn
where people wake softened by the echoes of chirps,
by the stream of light burning inside as deeply as coal

but first we must bear the violent blow of hail and frost,
the feast of rain and slush
reaching far into the crevices in rocks

not even the smallest finger
can graze those cracks and spaces

winter alone will fill those gaps,
flush out the debris,
melt it all the way to the root,
and only then –
like an elastic coil wire when stretched –
will spring return to shape.

Published February 22, 2015 by Women Around Town 

If You Love ME

When I look
beyond the dusty brush
and see a red branch shining
through a meadow of green,
or stumble upon a path
of tulips bending through
a rush of water, or struck
by an orange moon that must have wings
it flew so close–
like a spring spilling over
a terrace of rocks, I drift to you.

From beneath
the spit and drizzled sky
violet sea waves
froth and spray,
sandbars emerge along-shore
where a field of flowers tinsel
in the dusk like a cave of glowing worms,
and everything of beauty in this world,
I am yours.

Now, pay attention.
There’s something you must know:


Night hawks
and listless hours,
the flush of warmth
to flesh of petals
turns stale and crumble.

This year is no
different than others.
The sun passes
over the equator,
a copper button slips
through a slit.

A ring of light surrounds
half the earth, a mouth of
darkness closes on the other.

Published November 30th, 2014 by Women Around Town

Broken Places


I wake mid sleep from the soft slap of your hand.
Draped beads clack against the closet door as the waves
from the sound machine crash against
the water  and I wonder about
that day I cut opened my chest
and placed my heart in your hands.

Can I trust you to cradle
it in your fingers,
mindful of not letting it fall?

And, if it did accidently
slip through the empty spaces
would you dive to catch it before
it splatters onto the ground?

I fall back asleep and dream we are blankets swimming
towards our rowboat. Paddles meet, a spark like your touch,
and we shoot from the root of spring and green shines
through the water.