Love Letter #50: Sunday Shoes

Breath of wind, come
caress my face with petals
of sweetest flower
take hold of my heart
and dance me into
the essence of you;
your love cascading
the length of my hair,
every strand
finding fingers
to gently wrap ‘round
like daisies sway
on a lazy afternoon,
after skirts
and Sunday shoes
have passed.


Love Letter #49: Date Night

He was surprised
when I suggested we sit in the park

and just talk.
We could have had candles
and a vase full of roses,
napkins in our laps,
and the hum
of other conversations,

but I wanted him all to myself-

sun beginning to fade
with just the ripples in the pond,
scent of fresh cut grass
and the reflection of periwinkles
in his soft, brown eyes;

oh, that gaze he gives me
the one that makes me look away;
hold back the tears.

When I think of us
I think of daffodils;
a love so delicate, unfading
and gold as morning,
whispered new every awakening,
like dew upon petals;
like pages of poetry,

crisp, like the red of autumn.


Eccentricities of Life Before Coffee

Lashes hesitantly fall open,
hips pivot feet to the floor;
shuffle, shuffle in pink slippers
making light of the day.

Outside these walls,
lingers hate, but, I turn,
blow it away, softly,
like daffodils
swaying good morning
to the sun

and when evening comes,
thoughts encircle me,
like stars;
keep me captive

until Spring comes calling.


Welcome Sign


Driving through the desert,
I take blurry pictures of cacti,
find faces in clouds,
anticipating red rock formations
and an abrupt change of atmosphere
when we pass that welcome sign
that I can never capture on camera

just beyond the second roundabout
where our lives took a dramatic turn
two years before.

Despite two flights
and a long drive
from a ninety degree Phoenix
with a broken air conditioner,
and growling stomachs,

all we can do
is breathe it all in;
this place, this air,
this energy

this return to sacred ground

where horizontal and vertical
come together
in multi-colored stones

to form a cross.



I hear a voice
counting sheep for me
and patting my head

when it falls.

When the rain is too hard
to stand under,
he is my umbrella;
my shelter in the storm.

I see the sun breaking
through lace curtains;
the same light that led the way
when my feet were dragging

and the weight on my shoulders
was almost too much to bear.

When I speak,
unaware of the direction
my words may take,
I know he is holding my hand,
bringing ideas to fruition.

I only thought I was the poet.


June 23rd

Don’t you hate it when you hear that song;
the one that makes you reach out
when you never thought you would?

I left my heart in a linkedin message-
(that is the only way I knew how to reach him,)
Dear Dad,
never expecting to receive a response,

but, I did.

It was straight forward,
to the point:

“Thank you for getting in touch.
I am so glad to hear that you are happy in
your life, but,”

(that resounding word, ) “but..

I would rather not begin to get involved
after all these years.
I hope you understand.”
and it was signed simply:
“Love always.”

I wondered,
where was the love in that letter?

I could have crawled back
into my safe cocoon,
into that introverted little girl;
that want-to-be poet
that always wanted a daddy,

but, I had already blossomed.