The stirring is so strong
I can't help but string words, 
one at a time, until 

there is a web woven
from my heart 
to yours.

I want to feel you, 
want to know that you 
feel it too, this stirring, 

this pulse of life coaxing
us closer—like the goldfinch
gifting the maple with her splash 

of gold. Please, let us 
listen, let us answer the call—
let us string our song from one branch

to another. Let us scatter 
our gold
everywhere. 

I throw on his oversized flannel shirt, so aware 
of the dark and silence of this December morning—
everything creeks and cracks as I walk slowly 
down the hallway toward the lit up Christmas tree,
the scent of coffee. In the kitchen, 
I foam milk, pour a touch of vanilla into 
the mug my daughter made 
in her high school ceramic class. How 
have so many years passed since those high school 
days? Touch of vanilla, hot coffee, foaming 
goodness on top. I pause to watch the steam rise.
I do it all slowly, as if it is sacred. As if this day 
is new and anything is possible. As if I am new. 
I sit now, cat purring on my lap, window open to let 
December in, cradling the warm mug against 
my heart. I close my eyes and sip. 

Yes, I know, there are gifts 
to wrap, meals to plan, dusty corners
to clean, items on the very important list 
still waiting to be checked off. And
as always, there is a holy invitation 
to stand beneath this open sky moment,
to do nothing but enter
all the way—no strand of you 
anywhere else. A holy invitation 
to pause all that pulls and listen
to the poetry inside your pulse.
I have laid out a blanket of softness—
please, won’t you join me?

These eyes that look back
have been taught to notice 
the flaws—chin succumbing 
to gravity, deep forehead lines, 
body holding extra weight 
like its life depends on it. How 
to accept all of this? How to turn 
the focus toward marvel—
marvel at how hands type 
letters that become love notes, 
at how ears hear the jingle of daughters’ 
laughter, at the heart that beats 
its way through another day, marvel
at how words rise from somewhere
inside and land here onto 
the page—like snowflakes 
on the tongue, already melting,
melting.

In the middle 
of the afternoon, 
in the middle 
of my life, 
in the middle 
of a poem 
that wants 
so much 
to get it right—
it is the lilies 
on the kitchen table 
that wink at me,
a breath of sunshine
on this cold 
December day,
saying everything 
with no words at all—
they are the poem 
I want to write.

Such simple tools—

pen, paper, a thirst
that won’t 
go away,

a few moments to lift 
your eyes
and notice

what is here—

the scent of citrus,
the almost-leafless maple,
a table full of poetry,

to notice 
what stirs in you
as you notice.

When the mind 
hisses: You can’t. 
You don’t have time—

laugh. And then 
pick up the pen
anyway—

show the mind 
how laughably 
wrong it is,

write as if
you are dying of thirst
and words are your water.

I wish I had some smart thing to say, 
that today was one of those rare days 
when words spill effortlessly. But, instead, 
I sit here at the kitchen table and sigh 
and sigh again. Instead of writing, 
I watch the dog chase the cat, stare out 
the window at nothing, type and delete, 
type and delete. Today is one of those days 
when it feels like there is less air in the room, 
and I don't know where the truth is buried. 
This isn't meant to be a poem, just me 
feeling for the light. But, it just now occurred 
to me that maybe, instead, I'll ask you 
if you will come sit here in the dark with me.

The old woman on the corner of Spruce and Ninth
stood in the sunshine with her rain poncho and sign. 
I don’t remember what her sign said, but I remember 
that it was colorful and kind, that it was Thanksgiving day, 
that I was buying fresh parmesan for my roasted brussel 
sprout dish and flowers for the neighbor whose wife
is dying. The turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and
pies were waiting for me at home. As I handed her 
some cash, she smiled, looked into my eyes 
and said thank you, then asked: Have you seen 
the rainbows today? She swept the sky, pointed to 
each place a rainbow had been. I had not seen 
the rainbows. I had been in my house cooking, cleaning, 
preparing for guests. Most would not have 
called her lucky, but she was there beneath the rainbows, 
still smiling, still sprinkling sunshine. Keep your eyes open, 
she said, as I walked away. I can't stop thinking about 
this rainbow woman. I wish I had asked her name. 

It takes so little, really—
to turn a day, maybe 
a whole life, around.

A soft smile of me-too 
from the stranger 
in the hospital waiting room, 

the nice nurse 
who leans in close
and calls you honey.

The moment in the parking lot when, 
finally, you get to hug your healthy daughter 
and she holds longer than she needs to.

The neighbor who shows up 
at your front door, 
homemade bread in hand.

The friend who sends 
you photographs of birds 
because she wants you 

to have a moment of beauty 
in your very hard day, and she knows 
you love few things more than you love birds. 

A moment with the moon—

how she lifts your head, 
gives you everything 
simply by shining her light. 

The good news. 
The exhale.
The full table. 

I can’t stop saying thank you. 
I don’t ever want to stop 
saying thank you. 

After the scary news, after I cancel
the class, wipe the tears, forget 
how to breathe, I sit by the window, 
and immediately, a hawk lands
on the mossy backyard fence, meets 
my eyes from the other side. 
The hawk looks in. I look out. 
Eyes meeting eyes. And then,
my breath. I remember my breath, 
remember that I am not alone. I breathe 
again. I say thank you. As I wait for further
news, I put the kettle on, stir in 
the honeyed sweetness, let 
the hawk’s steady gaze settle settle 
settle, her quiet strength still with me.

Today, I count my blessings, 
then count them again, 

walk through this Monday 
morning hunting for wonder

as though it is the only
thing that will save me.

While I stir the honey into
the steaming mint tea,

I think of how it took twelve
bees an entire lifetime 

to make just one teaspoon
of this golden goodness.

I sip extra slowly, counting 
and counting again.

She invited us to write 
a tiny autumn poem
using the word crunched 
as our spark. All I can think 
of is that cereal I ate 
as a young girl, the peanut buttery 
sugar glaze left on my teeth, 
the sweet, pink things pretending 
to be berries—which reminds me
of how crunched I felt beneath 
his rage, her silence—their pretending 
all was fine when it was far, far from fine.

The cat is sick again, the vet 
bill outrageous and they still 
don’t know what’s wrong 
with the poor guy.

I don’t recognize 
this post-menopausal body, this
aging face, this body that feels 
too heavy to lift.

Our government doesn’t take care
of our earth, our people. 

The president of our country 
called a woman Piggy. 

And
and 
and...

There is no poem today, 
just life doing what life does.

Exhaustion seeps 
from my veins.

And, still, the trees
are lit up in golden evening
light. Still the ground
holds me.

There is nothing like it, 
this quiet page, words 
that rise rise rise 
from some mysterious space, 
a space that longs 
aches begs pleads to speak. 

One word at a time, 
what was on the inside is now
on the outside. I bow 
in gratitude, the light 
in me bows back. 

Words are a lifeboat 
carrying me through rough 
waters, a lantern, a flicker, 
a spark, a little twinkle inside, 
my north star.

Words are my way 
of saying—it is hard, 
it is beautiful. 
I noticed. 
I was here. 

I am here.

I’m really happy, Mom.

These are the four words
that spill
from her heart
into my own.

I listen as she shares
all the reasons 
for this overflowing
joy, 

and I know 
that I can float forever
in this sea, 
that there is not 

a single thing
that matters 
more
than this.

Everything reminds me 
of how brief it all is, the lifeless 
fly on the window sill, 
the soon to be leafless maple 
in the front yard, the abnormal 
results, his scary moment 
on the airplane when the words 
would not come, the waiting.
Her deepening wrinkles, 
these creaky knees,
the neighbor who planted 
Marigolds last spring, 
now on hospice. The news,
the news, the news. The line 
is so thin between here 
and gone. And, 
I am here today. 
Pen in hand, 
cat purring on my lap, 
the candle dancing 
with light beside me, 
the rising sun, the first sip 
of coffee, the smile 
on his face. This inhale, 
this exhale, another new day. 
The Marigolds bloom on.

I am a poet without words, a woman
alone at her kitchen table 
watching the cursor
blink and blink. 

I sip the vanilla-almond tea,
light the candle, open the poetry book
hoping another’s words 
will fuel my own. 

I yawn. I sigh. I watch the green bodied
hummingbird sip from the feeder. I check
the email again. I reach 
and reach. 

What happens if I stop
reaching, if I feel 
rather than 
chase? 

What happens If I enter 
the wordless realm, 
if I listen 
rather than speak?

I was the toddler who, night after night
repeated, Mommy, I don’t understand, 
the girl in pigtails who escaped the noise 
to walk alone with the trees, the young girl 
who spent summers on Lake Champlain,
wrote in her journal while the men caught fish, 
the one who begged them to free the wiggly ones. 
I still remember the hook in the mouth, the desperate, 
big eyes, the sick feeling in my belly. In eighth grade, 
I was the new girl with the weird southern accent 
who wrote poetry in Biology class instead 
of dissecting the pig. The girl who felt everything 
too deeply, asked too many questions. Too sensitive, 
they said. Words were my safe place, my shelter of kindness, 
the arms that never closed or judged or criticized, never
asked her to be quiet. The blank page receives everything, 
always understands. I am still that girl. I am still
trying to understand. 

How much of ourselves are we willing to be? 

This isn’t some cute question, I mean, really—
are we willing to show up without 
the layers and layers of protection, 

are we willing to share our behind-the-scenes 
messiness, to say—oh yes, me too—
to not need to be “on” or right?

This life is hard, but damn is it easier 
when we stop thinking it should be easier,
when we stop trying to hide the hard, 

when we lay our head 
on each other's shoulder 
for a while.

Maybe the hardest thing is thinking
that it’s supposed to look different 
than how it looks, that we are supposed 
to look different than how we look.

How much of ourselves are we willing to be?

Our gifts are hidden 
in what is hidden. 

Come out of hiding, please.

Let the waves come,
let the waves go, 

feel them inside
your body, 

until your insides settle 
like the sweetest lullaby. 

Sweetheart, it has never 
been out there—

it is tucked inside 
your own sweet heart. 

Please, turn toward
yourself. Stay with, hold, 

mother that scared one back 
to health. Everything 

you are reaching for is right there 
in the feelings you don’t want to feel. 

You don’t need anyone’s 
permission but your own, I promise. 

But, don’t listen to me, 
listen to yourself.

This is the finger pointing to the moon, 
the moon is on the inside of you, 

inside the feelings 
you don’t want to feel.