it is a thoughtful place.
everywhere you look
there is comfort,
reassurance that you’re
safe among friends.
our hosts are gracious,
as able to give others
space as they are to
engage in conversation.
if people have phones
you’d never know, except
when there’s a need, a
reservation to be taken,
someone waiting for a
ride back from the clinic,
after a difficult day of
working to be well.
in some ways it reminds me

there are those people that
you click with right off the
bat and become fast friends with.
others that come of time spent
circum stantially in the company
of those who aren’t like us.
we have so much to learn from
each other. it is exciting in
its own way to be exposed
to new ideas, music, ways of

my loved one
my darling
my friend.
it hurts me to see
you hurt. i know
you feel abandoned
helpless
like there’s little
to look forward to
in life. all i can
say is that i’ll
be here for you.
sit with you and hold
your heart and your hand.
i’m no stranger to
the house of mourning.
i’m more at home here,
really, than in
the house of mirth.
all i can say is

i remember visiting a church
we’d only been to a few times.
we hadn’t met too many people there.
the sermon was on Jesus healing
a woman who’d been bleeding
every day for twelve straight years.
i was, at the time newly ill, had quit
a job i loved to see if a lower stress
lifestyle would help but it did not.
i started ugly crying, found that
i could not stop. i didn't want
to wait a decade more in order

walk with me, my love,
under the light of the moon.
i love how it sparkles the
whites of your eyes as they
meet mine, and suddenly no one
notices the color of our
skin anymore. in it we are
transformed. it makes everything

pride has always been
one of my fave writ
times, but this year
feels new, with you by my
side to share it with.
it is delicious, a
fusion of how we are
different yet the same.
i love how you love
we are soft, each the
other’s safe space and it’s
been like coming home.

people say it as if
it’s a point of pride:
i have no filter, shifting
the responsibility for
being offended onto the listener
letting the speaker off the hook.
we need our filters, actually.
words warp their listeners,
hurt those who are
AlreadyBroken, why can’t we
just call people by their
chosen names? it’s a small

i lie in bed awake some nights
thinking of the narrow
misses, the close calls. all
the days that could have ended
catastrophically for me, for
someone i love. places where
the paths could have diverged,
led to a life that’s drastically
diff’rent from the one i have
now. these past few years
especially. the choice to
accept or reject an invitation,
a day it wasn’t raining so
torrentially. i’m sure there are

what comes first to mind
(that’s how we make things real,
right?) is how dread is a
liminal state. you are
born, that much is certain;
you will inevitably
die. what to do with these
moments between? next
that YouAreHere, no matter
the reason, so might
as well make the best
of things. life is good
for a few laughs, at least,
per the absurdists,
philosophically (you must
at some point make the leap
). at the top of the peak,
before the boulder rolls
back down, you real-ize

as plants and flowers
turn their faces toward
the sun, knowing how
it nourishes them,
we are the same.
you are my sunshine,
as i am yours.
be my light, as we
become wed,

i wonder sometimes
what it's like to be
a butterfly. do they
know when they go
into the cocoon
as caterpillars
what the end result
will be? wonder if
they choose the
moment, or if it
chooses them?
if it's like sleep,

there's a moment, poised on the
cusp of what comes next, a final
chance to catch one's breath between
may, with its flurry of graduation
activities, and what will turn out
to be the first round of goodbyes.
august's coming soon, and there
are preparations to be made.
i remember my own mom shopping for
things i didn't think i'd ever
want or need, the paper towel holder
i didn't think was worth the space
it took up in my tiny kitchenette.

there are so many
colors, each one
lovely in
its own way.
blue as the
sedona sky.
pink as the
sun sinking low
as we walk our
labyrinth path.
yellow-green as the
newest growth
of spring, turning
lush under the
summer solstice moon.

i grew up in church,
was told it was my
purpose in life to keep
a home, a man well-fed, bear
godly children. even my name was
a sting - it meant honey bee. i saw
my mom, how unhappy she was and
thought: i will choose a diff'rent life.
so i chose art, so as not to be
stuck behind a desk. i wanted to
be free. so many women lit the way. i
wouldn't be here today if not for them.
gloria, frida, georgia, my hero

when we are born into these
bodies, the paths set
before us may seem few.
the madonna or the whore?
come stay for tea and i
will tell you of another way.
one not defined by who
we are to men. it is possible
to be simply woman. independent,

in my head it's like
all of the very best things
about having kids (ain't they
grand?) with far less burden of
responsibility. the joy of
having health and time
left for another chapter
in life's journey to spend
with the people we love.
in its way, it's somewhat like
being young again, immersed in

among the sheer delights
of having a big family are the
many occasions for getting
together, always someone rounding
the corner, turning the page
on that next phase of their lives.

in the field,
where nothing exists
but cows and grass
and empty sky.
after the rain

we've been so
fortunate,
you and i,
to have found
each other,
that we get
to do this
crazy life
together.
i love to look
back at all our
adventures,
remember those

being away from you
makes me homesick.
home is where
your mom is, and
it’s the little things
i miss. like when we