writings
The Choice
The price of vulnerability is steep
And my bank account is running to empty.
Grace is reliable but often troublesome.
Wandering a terrible balance of lost and found.
Yet, there is only this choice:
Crouch low in the shadows
And play out my days watchful and wary.
Or take a hard running start
Before leaping off into the abyss.
Reaching for the angels and
Hoping they show up to lend a hand.
Monday Before Work
If I didn’t have to wake up well before the sun
To dress for a job that I’m not sure I want
I would not have been standing at my kitchen window
And happened to look out into the darkened black
To see the merest sliver of a moon coupling with a bright star.
My breath stolen to pay for the awe.
Tell Me the Story of You
What would you say?
Would you stumble or know it by heart?
Are you the star looking straight at the camera?
Or the hapless victim struggling to find a way home?
Would you tell it both ways
And discover they each matter?
Is your story an ordeal tearstained with courage;
A seamless rebirth after a hard closure?
Or is it simple. A quiet, stolen moment
That suddenly bent the angle of your trajectory.
Let me ask you this.
Would you write it on a scrap of paper
And tuck it away in a time capsule.
Or, let it echo throughout the atmosphere.
Would you record it on your phone
To be lost with the inevitable crash.
Or, do you whisper it to your closest friend
As you hold hands in the dark, safe and warm.
Tell me.
Tell me the story of you
Over and over again.
I am here to listen.
Tell me the story of you, and,
Carefully, we will hold it like a shared promise—
This beautiful complexity of being.
For my daughters, so very far away—
If I were there, I’d slip sweet notes under your pillow
For you to hold in your hands as you sleep.
In the cracks of the sidewalks, I would drop, for you to find,
Small memories of when you were adored best.
I’d order lavender skies at dusk and armfuls of gardenias
To be delivered when you expect them least.
I’d pave over every pothole and design billboards
That sing your name like a favorite song.
With every step you take, I’d throw my heart
To the ground to be used as the softest carpet.
If only I were there, my daughters, so very far away.
High Desert Afternoon
Snow banners sing from silent mountains.
The bare willows sway as they receive
A flight of small brown birds.
On the desert floor water rests patiently,
Waiting for entry after a sudden storm.
There is no rush.
A strip of clouds protects the sun
To keep it from burning out.
Boulders sit in practice of nothing.
While creatures crouch low in the shadows
Watching time unseen.
