To the Brim

You tap into a secret place;
your liquid flowing inspiration
through my waking veins

onto a page
of alliterated tongue;
sway of syllables marching
to your quickened beat,

like rows of yellow daffodils
promenading to the sun.

I see you swirl,
coloring my cup
with comfort;
my pen, with new ink

filling me warm, with your muse

like a favorite blanket
in the middle of winter.


Love Letter #51: Solace

When morning makes light
of transgressions,
tulips bow and bend
at the mention of his name,
I find solace in feelings;
a whisper of sacrifice
stretched across wood;
remembrance of a love
that crosses boundaries-
tenderly lifts burdens
into heart-shaped wings
of atonement.



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.


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.



 Lips nibble the end of a pen

    as thoughts swirl

              like acrobats

       so close to the edge.

I can feel the tension


            fingers trembling

                          to tell a tale

      like the ebb and flow of waves,

            like the static between us;

the fine gold thread

     connecting each individual

       to another source of light;

                                of love.

Be my intercessor,

                my bridge

     to the constellations

             your words,

          beckoning my voice

  to spill truth


one syllable at a time.



Against This Present Darkness

Eyes rise and fall
with simple shading of clouds
upon a face;
a bowed head
seeking shelter
from raging tempests;

from love’s ache.

Night comes quietly
like snowflakes in winter;
like the whisper of psalms
​ beyond candlelit curtains.

I keep your words with me
soft syllables of grace,
sweet shelter

in the midst of my storm.