April 9, 2020

Red, newborn fists

hold together crumpled buds

at the ends of patient tree limbs.


they will relax open

into smooth, emerald filament.

The buttery daffodil

rises from winter rest, head still bent -

soon to be lifted and alive.

Coaxed by gentle light,

the natural world...

December 16, 2019

I heard David Whyte read his poems seven years ago

and again recently.

Now, as then, he spoke of his dear friend

and fellow poet, John O’Donohue, long since dead.

Deep missing was evident in David’s stories;

I could feel it in between the lines of his verse.

Somehow, still,


October 4, 2019

Uncovered and cold,

worn thin, about to corrode,

I stumble through life’s gray days.

Kneeling in desperation,

frantic for a breath of consolation,

I expose my heart to divinity and beg:

Penetrate me with silky peace;

wrap me in love’s comforting fleece.

Mold my broken pieces i...

January 1, 2019

Words of love

            ground us in who we have always been;

            remind us of who we can yet become.

Words of love

            lift our chins when our heads hang...

April 26, 2018

In order to repair my wounded finger,

they had to have my arm.

When I woke, I didn’t initially notice

that my arm was missing.

It looked normal by my side,

lying on the blue, foam prop.

Only when I was home in bed

did I understand the full extent of its vacancy:

I rolled over...

March 28, 2018

A simple cut on the hand complicates.

Damaged nerves leave a trail of electric tingles

and numb patches that will never come back to life.

A particular site, painful when pressured,

moves specific activities out of reach.

Regular and extensive exercises are required

to preve...

February 12, 2018

I think of my father as I cut

the orange flesh of the mango from its dark green skin.

Recently my husband introduced me

to fresh mangos and their intoxicating sweetness.

He showed me the Guatemalan way to eat them;

simply biting the fruit directly from the peel.

But I really...

December 14, 2017

The crescent rolls didn’t turn out as well this year.

I’ve used that recipe many times,

baked bread from scratch dozens more.

I think it was the yeast;

I think it could sense my sadness.

It just didn’t raise the dough as joyfully.

Of course, the stuffing wasn’t the same.

I di...