Three Breathing Syllables

Rain spills on unsuspecting souls
drowning dreams;
forlorn, petal-less flowers,crushed;
branches bent, broken
into twisted twigs
of unpromised tomorrows.

Lashes lift to golden dawn
by some unimaginable act
of faith,
blush of cheeks tinted satin,
pale lips colored rose;
gentle thoughts
mend shattered spirits.

With just a brush of tenderness
and three breathing syllables,

mountains move.



We Had the Moon


Once I shared the sky with you

gazing from my flat lands

to mountains where you stood


and sands awaiting my name

married with yours.


We had the moon 

to wrap our heads around

and stars that flickered the tomorrows

that I was missing from your eyes.


I saw love in our landscape,

heard waves whispering your intentions

echoing promises spoken

on one knee.


Now, I watch you sleep; 

feel your breaths

close enough to kiss;


my hand wrapped gently

within yours


sharing so much more than stars.









With tiny cries and outstretched fists

you peeked through dew kissed lashes

into my new found fluttering heart


with coos that whispered to be cuddled;

soft breaths that murmured gratitude.


cherishing every smile,

I kissed every tiny finger

and as you slept, I prayed,

giving praise for every new awakening.


Such a joy, these flowers

springing from loving earth;

these once wobbly stemmed buds

blossoming into graceful, dancing

petaled visions of beauty;


these daughters of mine.



Graceful Chorus


I will weep in darkness

when I must,

but never stay;


dancing back


through rain;

through frail lemon daffodils


and my pretty pink petunias.


Bring me a harp.

My voice and I

will play a symphony


to the light.


When French doors swing open

and black night creeps in; shadows

to smother smiles,

I tiptoe it out


content that faith alone

can kill the pain,

drown fears;


light, breathing life

into once shattered places.





the Price of Freedom

I came to you leafless;
windblown tresses swaying;
a starry-eyed dreamer
plucking petals

from a borrowed wildflower bouquet.

How can one venture to take
something as fragile as a heart,
still beating to the chords of conviction,

and silence the strumming
of love’s most tender verse?

You left me in the rain;
peeled back, hollow
with nothing but a notebook of thoughts
the clothes on my back,
and the faith that Grandma gave me.

It turns out that was all I needed

to be free.



the Colors of Us

Show me your colors
and I will show you mine;

Twist me
into a waltz
and dip me

into fields of bluebonnet tears
when we need to be closer,
golden rays of laughter
to get through those moments
when curved lips are the best medicine.

You let me be pink;
bring me roses just because,
appreciating all those little imperfections

that you never try to change.

Green is not everything.
What grows in our garden
are things not material;
treasures others can only dream of.

I painted a rainbow for you to follow
and at the end,
you’ll find my heart.



A Manuscript Missing Pages

I found a manuscript in the attic;
crumbling paper decomposing
into fragments of a life.
I saw a resemblance in this girl;
brown haired, pale faced,
quick paced, smiling energy
turning inward.

I read her words hoping to know
what became of this bashful, dreamy eyed
fatherless bud picking wildflowers;
this babies on her hip,
fingers intertwined,
one foot on the accelerator,
the other on the brakes
mess of nerves.

She spoke of love calmer than her stride,
whispered psalms sweeter than the roses missing
from her cheeks and in these pages,
there was life. There were fields, stars;
there were moons over river water

and satin soft comfort not seen in polaroids
that she left; the only evidence
of a past filled with more shade
than any Southern girl would find
on any given Summer day

and there was sun.