Growing weary on the road,
respite seemingly out of grasp, wild
eyes cast their silver-yellow sullen

warning to the ground below as we crane
our twisted necks up: a meager offering
to the ones who walked the path before

Horned owl, languid head turning, collects
our astonished gasps like cold gleaming
rubies once tossed into a ravine or river —

nearby, the fog rolls in: curious bystander
ever intent on pulling the heavy curtain aside
to devour the last tasty morsels in the thrill

of a bygone moment — reckless and ripe
with the bloodstains of youth, the hunger
departing and returning in an instant

magnolia’s cream-mottled cheek
   marking yet another bygone era
   plunked into the abyss as sorrow
   burrows into us, roots that become

our prisons / our refuge, the delirious
journey into what we've come
     to recognize as our shadow selves'
   last fragments of a fallen season

that last slanted sunset reflected off the lake
hinting with its brilliance at what we simply
could not admit to ourselves. The expanding
distance between us we hide in and seek thereafter

Every step I take, the destination drifts further,
Like I never flinched from my starting line.
Am I truly moving—or just imagining motion?
This constant struggle of duality isn’t the enemy of my path—
It is my path. It is I.
Confident in nothing.
The way of solitude gives me euphoria.

My path has many distractions.
They haunt me, they’re tempting me to stay or return.
It’s getting hard to stay on the road.
My will is my lantern, which flickers with my every step.

I’m scared.
I look at the bushes on the side of the road with fear.
My movement gets slow.
I’m shivering.
I know there is a predator, and I’m its prey—
Still, I ignore it, like a sacrificial lamb.

This road may end with me—
Or my grief may end me before it.

I did not leave the desert unchanged.
The heat shimmered as if reminding me that all I had beheld was a mirage, tempting as it was to grasp it tightly
in my palm.

The rumble of the charge still echoed
in my mind, my spirit fully awakened, body upright now. So many decades
of being bent and not realizing it.
My vision shifted

to the impossible becoming my reality.
The warrior women who spoke life over me, poised and unwavering
as those with wisdom often are.
Their eyes peered deeply into mine

and the dry bones were made flesh anew. Somewhere in the distance,
the little girl I once was (who had fought so fiercely to procure
my safety) waved at me

one final time. Thank you, dear
little one, for being there when I felt like I had nothing else left. You no longer have to spring to my rescue.
I can handle my battles now,

knowing that the ultimate victory
is mine through Him who strengthens me. As I left the desert, I didn't look back. I was free. And so was she. Somehow, it was enough.

I come from the cracked sidewalks of Chi-town, stoops
where we sat baking in blistering sun, listening
for the bells of the bicycles, so bold & eager for change
we could plop on the counter of the corner store.

In the constant drone of the deli, Italian grandpas
convened in their drab plaid, pressed khakis — coursing
the quiet confidence that comes from living that life
in the fast lane, simmering to a peace that permeates
each measured step. The bowls of minestrone soup
to warm their old bones: dead dreams reigniting.

I come from the family that never had anything
to own — but still didn’t allow me to go hungry.
I come from a steaming plate of sizzling
homemade dumplings, each juicy morsel
containing a mother’s fierce love for family.

I come from a long line of trauma responses
and the healing that only comes from truly creating.
I come from a great-grandmother, a grandmother,
a mother that poured out even when the jagged pieces
cut up our throats coming up. I come from having

lost my entire mind, frenzied forces pushing
my body up against a cold psych wall, no escape
in sight for me. I come from the guilt I'd held
for far too long, for missing the entire first
month of my daughter's life on this earth
when I couldn't even take care of myself.

Somewhere in the midst of coming to the end
of myself, I found You. You had never left.
I came home, battered and so broken, and You
enveloped me in Your healing Light. Selah.  



I’m walking in restoration, deep restoration,
a coursing river engorged with living water.
I finally allow myself to be fully immersed
in the wellspring that never runs dry. And there, fully
surrendered in the depths, I find that I can finally breathe.

I did not board the train this time
its whistle soft as a wish I once made
before learning the cost of arrival

There were other hands to hold,
small rooms to fill with quiet work,
a garden of dreams still waiting to bloom
in the soil I help tend each day

The map stretched wide with longing,
but I folded it neatly beside the bills,
between the unopened letters
and the list of things love asks us to carry

Not all journeys begin when the door opens.
Some begin when we choose to stay—
when we say: not yet,
with a voice that still believes in someday

Let the wind have its turn
Let the stars wait a little longer
What is meant for me
will find me walking—
with full hands,
and an open heart

It is so boring yet alluring,
So strong and weak in just a nick of time,
To drive all night without hesitation,
To come back in the morning with a broken spine.
To switch the role of a conqueror to victim,
And juggle stories to make up a perfect line.
In retrospect, come up with better answers,
To realize it's all a waste of time.
It is a moment of complete misunderstanding,
To fill the cranium with what is wiser to be off.
There is an end that points to the beginning of a new axis,
It turns upwards, completing the dimension of a cartboard box.

It is not gullible as paper, still able to be molded and reshaped.
One day a hopeless sufferer surrenders
And talks oneself out of the noxious place.
Outside the box, imagination blossoms peacefully
Without the coerced necessity to play within the walls.
New tales embark on unexpected journeys
Demanding the narrator be an explorer to behove.
To find out better moments in decisions.
To finish pointless crushing of the bones.
There is a start that shifts the living
After the point of no return.