Easy miracles—
As obtainable as
Opening a tired fist.
-
-
Honoring Another Day
Following the casual desert trails
That lead to the morning mountains,
A friend walks with his little dog
Who is afraid of the dark. As is he.
I imagine him saying, with shaky reassurance,
“See, we made it through another night.
And the day is laughing. Not at us, but with us.”
And I imagine his little dog answers;
Trotting through the winter sage,
Following the faint scent of rabbits. -
I’m Not Gone; I’m Here
The year slips by me
In the shadow of days;
Impossible to wind
The string of my thoughts
Into a neat ball.
To keep the tangles
Small and manageable.
Nothing feels quite even keel,
But the edge of uncertainty and aging.
Never mind.
No longer am I bothered
As the veil drops;
The slow dissolve into wildness
That disregards consequence.
A judgement of delight
With a reckoning of freedom. -
Planned All Along
When insecurity shows
Like a slip beneath the hem of your skirt,
Tug at your waist to straighten
Your backbone of confidence
And jauntily kick out your foot
As you stride down the street
As if it was planned all along. -
Wayward
I don’t need one definition
Of who I am.
A category. A slot to fit.
Do you?
Like a letter that is lost,
I might stay in a place
Where no one can find me.
Or be delivered to the wrong address
Only to be opened by mistake.
What wayward pleasure comes
From reading someone else’s secrets
And making them your own.
