Twilight For a Goddess

She asks for me;
I can’t feel about it
as a Mecca, as some
focus of light.
Her quiet eyes wide;
skirting the edge of suspicions.
Her view is something
rather striking.
Conversation becomes heavy,
but I know only how to glance forward.
Her voice rises above the others
and tells me:
“the way to Heaven is never easy”.
The heat, the even tone of a draw;
we melt into one pulse.



The nature of chaos
is painted between
intolerable sun drowned
in thick haze
and dry, weathered mountains –
dark and bitter,
its crust of lies.
Wind drifts about,
soil sculptured
into storms that come
slow and maddening.
Here, the hot sink of air
heavy and breathless,
dust devils dance
cries for downpours,
bursts of lost loves.

If Love Could Talk

There is a word
for the sound a fire brews
on a cool March night
doused in ash and carefulness.
It is so close to the
quiet beating of your heart,
a silent lust
that echos into mine.
There is a word for
the moment your face is
just a kiss-length away.
It is close to the
force held in a moon’s hand,
gently calling love home.
There is a word for the
calmness emitting from within you;
tell me again of a word that means remain

a word that means darling
a word that means stay, stay, stay.


There, at the top of
an aging pine,
hidden among the dying needles
thin in their marmalade color
I am no longer ten,
the girl without a fear of heights,
but a songbird.
Just like the christening
of the black and white keys
of a baby piano,
I want to feel the weight of
the earth on each feather
that holds me high above.
Here, I firmly believe
the first heavy exhale
will be enough to lift me
beyond these motherly branches
and into the forever-blue.
And I will think of myself,
these wings, as lace –
so delicate, so intimate.
And most importantly,
I will be home.
*Often, as a little girl, I would climb the various trees around my neighborhood. Sometimes stalking the mailman from above with my dollar store binoculars. Sometimes I sat high above and understood why trees in the winter stood like pitchforks, angry at the sky who doesn’t have to understand death, as it just is and will always be. That’s where I want to exist.*


Acoustic Fall,
leaves dance and sway
to their final resting ground.
Passing birds will sing a hymn
heading south in mass prayer.

The earth,
she knows the rhythm of death
and will embrace it again and again,
holding on to the promise of Spring;
an organic revival


Regurgitate and tongue
the words that burned us down;
smoke signals sent too late,
now caught in raw throats.
I never wanted to taste
the bitter way you say goodbye
or swallow force fed lies.

How I’ve gone from
your morning muse
to the last passenger on the
final train leaving town;
shadows to strangers
and I can’t recognize myself anymore.

Tell me,
how is it so easy for betrayal
to slip off the lips like silk;
to poison
and curse the body
once called home.


Our universe is filled
with some of the brightest stars;
the kind that guide us
through some of the most
unyielding and demanding nights,
and illuminate our path
until the sun rises
and we feel again.
When a star is born
it is praised, given a name
and followed through the sky.
And when a star dies
nothing goes untouched;
a force met with no refuge,
thrust into a perpetual plight
of grief.

***Claire Wineland suffered from CF. After a successful double lung transplant, she ultimately suffered from a massive stroke. Her infectious personality and fighting spirit will never be forgotten. Rest easy, sweet girl. If you are not familiar with this wonderful young woman, I suggest you watch a few of her YouTube videos – I know you will quickly fall in love.

Handle With Care

Fragile hearts must
be hand washed;
for they are the
delicate vessels
that travel between
the infinite galaxies
of our souls.
Gently pluck the shards,
the remnants of lies
that embed themselves
deep within our walls.
Scars will line and remind us
we are not invincible
and sometimes,
nothing will ever hurts us
more than love.


The night is being swallowed
by the waning moon and
I find myself in the darkness,
hands tracing infinity in the dirt.


I’m afraid if I stand above
the water’s edge for too long
I, too, will pursue the taste
of enduring freedom


The trees acknowledge
they will be born again come spring,
so I fuse myself to branches,
certain and destined for my rebirth.

* a little (okay, a lot) on the dark side. loved the imagery. I think “rebirth” has been the theme in many of my recent poems.


Pressing my ear to the door,
I heard him strum his guitar
for the first time in six years.
It was soft —
determined to grow
into an anthem of hope.
Fingers polish strings and
in the air
dust becomes
dancing silhouettes around him.
Standing here I’m transfixed,
carried back to age nine
and the house next to the tracks
where the music was louder
than the rumbling boxcars below.
I saw my father as untouchable
and loved him like royalty,
the way daughters do.