my handful of troubles
my handful of troubles are nothing
but small stones and bits of shells
i keep in my pocket–
rubbed and polished by time and touch
as if coaxed by rough seas into
a talisman of sweet comfort
-
-
She Wish She Had So Now She Will
Arch her back to the fickle sky,
Emulating the moon
That flings its partially
Made self across acres of space
Regardless of night or day.
Brave but often incomplete.
What a spectacle. What a disaster
To think that you can show up
Like that. For everyone to see
As you make and remake yourself.
Confident. Uncertain.
Wildly weird in your power
To disrupt tides, shake mountains,
And warp tender souls.
Changing, betraying, tempering
The laws of balance and gravity. -
The Woman in the Doorway
The woman leans against
The doorframe, casual and easy,
As if she’d never had a sleepless night.
As if she’d run through lovers like
Hot summer July days.
One hip cocked, surveying the world
And finding it wanting
Her. A woman who wakes with laughter
In her throat and a fierce grasp
On the rightness of her wrongs.
There is nothing more extraordinary
About her than me. As she stands there
Surveying the world from the doorway,
Watching me watch her as I walk by.
Her hair loose and her gold hoop earrings
Catching the sun and calling. -
Love Your Gorgeousness
Don’t forget as you navigate
With the devil of details
To love your gorgeousness.
Don’t forget to grasp the
Helping hand of a stranger
As you climb steep stones and
Cross running rivers that mark
The trail past your despair,
Past the waning hope and promises,
Past the determination to
Do it right from now on, and
Leads you, and you alone,
In all your gorgeousness,
To a willingness to receive
Not what is left but what is being offered
By way of seas of green bending
Grasses growing in the murky shallows
And the trees that stand like gods
Waiting for your embrace. -
Before She Found Her Way
She swept the driveway
In hopes that someone
Would stop by and stay
For awhile. Telling her
That everything is okay.
That everything merges
With meaning in the end.
That the pink flowers
In her terracotta pots are
Most lovely as is the effort
Of grace that she offers
With trembling hands over
And over again.
