After Jesus rose and he tiptoed out of his tomb in the middle of the night, he was much sneakier. People didn’t recognize him right away so he could say all kinds of stuff that they weren’t able to hear when they looked into his familiar eyes. That is, until they caught on to his game and said, “Oh Jesus! You again!” With a grin, he would be gone, at least until the next time. Like the other morning, when I woke up in my lover’s arms. His tenderness pulling me near. I sniff

Each morning when I roll over and open the corner of one eye and the light wiggles through like an impatient child, my first thought is of you. A small prayer separates my lips: for a sprinkling of fairy dust that I might rise from these wrinkled sheets and leave a night of old death; to taste a spoon full of resurrection. And, if not too much to ask, that as I begin to stand, my arched back might be green amidst brown grass surprising a stranger passing by. (photo by Ed Side

I hate you because I love you. You have ruined me completely. I was fine on my own before you showed me what togetherness is. I didn’t complain, or even think twice about, shouldering the burdens of life until you demonstrated true partnership for me. I used to flit from one social engagement to another with laughter on my lips and then you came along and let me know what true contentment feels like. Now I am utterly miserable in your absence. My anger flairs because you have

Talk too much too loudly too directly too honestly. Stand tall shoulders back not hiding heart or breast. Walk in their own shoes at their own pace on their own feet in their own time. Appear a little too confident for a man’s comfort carelessly, living into their truest selves. (art by Hildegard von Bingen)

Deep in the Northwoods, where mosquitoes swarm in flocks and pine trees try to tickle the clouds with their needles, I sit in stillness at the end of the dock, feeling the warm coffee cup in my hands. Sun rays angle through the surface of the lake, revealing a glimpse into an underworld where I am a stranger... Pools of fish smaller than my hand interweave among each other, looking for tiny floating particles for their morning snack.

Laying under a tree on a hot summer eve with the solstice sun still hanging in the deep, blue sky. I squirm on the grass until the roots support my head. I imagine the tree cradling me like a baby in her arms. I look up into the blanket of leaves wiggling above me, sending the breeze to play with my hair. Tiny holes in the green filament allow light to touch my face but not burn my skin. The moment is idyllic; I breathe in the goodness of it, inhaling the me

I. I always wanted thin, delicate arms. The ones that were meant for cascading down harp strings, alighting over piano keys, pirouetting across a stage. The limbs intended for long, white gloves and jeweled, strapless evening gowns. My arms are thick and solid like branches of an Oak tree. Genetically, they offer the ability to wring out wet clothes, open stubborn lids, scrub muddy floors. They were designed to hold crying babies and dig in garden dirt. Not elegant and lovely

Days so still, life freezes; time unwinds. Mist hangs like each breath suspended in winter’s air. Gray clouds obscure yellow light rays that gently warm. Distant past creeps into the present, chilling hope. The earth pauses in its orbit, ready to rush into full tilt. Only to dizzy the world around yet again.