I used to wait for rain
stand, palms up, pleading
for earth to fall away

so I could bloom;

sat under that weeping willow
many a Sunday, sleeping
under the swish of limbs,
tremble of railroads
echoing at my back-
ears attuned
only to cardinal’s song
to fade the noise
of Monday coming,

It took years of suffering
to open my wings,
to close the umbrella
to feel the son;

to feel the sun.




He listens
to my strings of conversation,
my giggling
in the middle of his sentence.
He watches my lips move
for any sign of tremble;
the white horse saddled.

and even in sleep,
he waits for a grimace;
a twitch of discomfort,
to sweep in
and conquer my demons,
replacing fear
with whispers of prayer,

like pretty little wildflowers,
the scent lingers;
the overwhelming emotion
better than any mortal love,
because he knows
the only way to stay in love
is to stay in the midst
of his presence.

~day 7 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month)



From where, my love,
does this river come
through a smile
and over
our held hands?

The stones, they fly,
but, we bob and weave,
weave and bob
until storms subside.

Petals open and close,
close and open
at the sound of his whisper,

tears trickling
into a river.

Oh, sorrow can be
the sweetest sound
when the answer
is in
his name,

his name, in ribbons

of calligraphy
across my heart.

Day 2 of NaMoPo a poem a day for National Poetry Month!


Broken Flowers

There was a whole field
of lavender, waiting
when my bare feet tiptoed out,
careful not to slam the screen door,
careful not to cry.

It was kissed all better
at grandma’s
after a cup of hot chocolate
and bedtime prayers
upon grandpa’s lap,
peacefully sleeping;

sugarplums were only secrets
rolled and kneaded into poetry,
softly dancing in my head,

and oh, those wildflowers
did make me smile:

~he loves me, he loves me not~

pure heart,
delicate as those petals,
fingers entwined
in little girl wishes
upon a star

to the one
who always loved me.



Love Letter #29: (Better Half)

You are the poem
dripping from my hands,

strong arms
waiting to catch me-
pick me up when I fall.

I always wondered
what the bough of a weeping willow
would be like,
all those days I spent
watching limbs sway and bend,
sway and bend,

but never break.

You are those limbs

holding me up,
but, never taking the bows.

I can stir the pot,
press out the wrinkles,
finish your sentences,
with dots,

like pretty flowers
all in a row,

but, I can never stand tall,
like you do;
you mighty oak
with the heart of a weeping willow.

Be still, my heart,
yes, you,
when I see you, humble,
hands, folded in prayer;
those brown eyes,
melting mine.

Yes, you are the poem,

but you always make me
the title.



Love Letter #28 (the knowing)

I carry the letters
of your name
on my lips, my tongue
uttering in alliteration
the sweet syllables of you.

I spell out your journey
within a sky full of stars.
accentuating the s’s
between you
and the crossed -t-
of our existence.

No one could ever
love me more
or even attempt the gift of life
in this (sometimes) sullen place
(not to mention the sacred peace
of the hereafter.)

I cannot count the pardons
or tally up the joys
that you have made me sing,

so, let me breathe in
your very presence,
take two steps forward
and press in to the knowing

that you will be there
each time I fall.



Ninety-Nine Words

The clouds were a smoky gray;
black birds swirling in an arch
‘round a shrouded sun.

There were not enough syllables
to spell out the intensity-
the rapturous love ascending
wrapped across wooden planks
and released like doves;
a book in untainted air
on weeping willow Sundays,

but, now we see the falling away;
the cuddling masses birthing idols,
taming wonders
with coincidence,
logical explanations,

and a bed of roses
without thorns.

I can see the light from here;
his doting eyes turning the page
to another January,

releasing a thousand fireflies
with the hope of a single spark.