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

i love a good bon-fire
on a crisp autumn evening, waking
up with the scent of woodsmoke
in my hair. so satisfy-ing to
burn things that you need
to let go of, their absence
a healing balm, creating warmth,
leaving a glow where your
problem used to be.
we lived in santa fe, sparkling
city of diamonds viewed from
above as you crest that final
hill. ev'ry fall they burn an
effigy of old man gloom, zozobra,

there once was a shark
whose name was parsifal and he
never understood why it was so hard
to make friends with the other creatures of the sea.
then a wise old fish who was
very very brave had compassion
on him and said: they are afraid of you.
perhaps if they got to know you

i loved fairies as a little girl
and still do. made myself a pair
of wings before you could
buy them at the store.
i loved unicorns and still do.
my favorite movie of all time and
maybe the first one i saw was called
the last unicorn. it's a magical story.
she goes looking for the others and
gets turned into a young woman by
mistake. given the choice in the end
to stay human or regain her true form,

instead of a poem about impending
CrisesOfAdulthood, let's write one
about hope for the future. as a young
artist, someone once told me words
that i'll never forget, something to
the effect that: fear is a sign that
you're on the right track. if something
causes you creative discomfort, it means
you're about to do a thing through
which you will grow. if you're not the
least bit scared, it's likely because
you have been there before and are treading
the same ground without really going
anywhere. another who said: if i have an

some people think of
them as weeds, but
i propose to make them
HonoraryFlowers,
officially, in my world
at least. their manes
are such a delightful
shade of gold before
the turn, and then

i think of the paths
i could have taken,
the luckiness of getting
another chance at life.
not that the previous
one was bad, only one that
i'd outgrown. change
can be so exciting when
you overcome the fear

it seems early for
the world to feel this way.
snowdrops without snow.
daffodils already
well and truly broken through
the soil. the world is on
the verge, a liminal moment
suspended at nietzsche's
noontide. you'll find me on
the riverbank, still too cold
to dip my toes in the water but