It came like weather.
No origin.
No request.

Just a shift in pressure
    inside the skin.
And something
  started speaking
    through my hands.

It wasn’t mine.
Not the phrase.
Not the image.
Not the ache it left.

But it needed a body
  to pass through.
And mine
  was open
    enough.

There are moments
when I read back what I wrote
  and feel
    like a stranger
    with my own voice.

Not confused.
Not proud.
Just…
  borrowed.

I don’t always know
 what I’m doing.
But sometimes,
 not knowing
  is what lets it happen.

Call it muse.
Call it current.
Call it memory
      from before this life.

I don’t need to name it.
Just not get in the way.

Somehow, unbefuddled, it all ties together,
The happy endings get tied, knots well made,
Sleep comes easy, the light dims slowly, finely,
Clarity, everywhere, not for taking, just for asking,
Wanting is off limits, even inconceivable, and the poem.
Why, even the poem finishes itself, and to all a very, Good Night

a grownup lullaby

It’s not a remarkable rarity,
Not a ruby reflecting the rays
Of the sun, indeed, serendipity
Is like salt in the Monterey Bay.

It’s the dollar you find in your pocket,
It’s the hummingbird visiting home—
The song you would keep in a locket
If you could, for it plays like a poem.

You needn’t be lucky to find it,
It is not a matter of chance.
Open your eyes, be unblinded
And you’ll see it in every glance.

The moon, the stars, the heavens on high
Are not hidden—simply look up to the sky.

I’m tired of being your shadow.
Wherever you are, I’m near.
I live at your dictation.
I’m chained by your sight here.

I used to live in silence.
To love, to suffer and no words at all.
If it hurts me, I bear without squirming.
If you only knew, how I want to bawl.

I’ve learned to be not certain,
Unheard, unnoted, noneself.
You see, I can be your shadow.
But I’m tired! I want to be myself!