I care not
for the knots
the fingers
crave to touch

Like splinters
beneath the nails
are the grains of
my contemplation

Snowflakes
that flutter down
melt so fast
in the fires
of destination

The cradle is
the ladle of life
dishing out
the grueling days

We stack up
board feet
by the yards
to build a house of
cards

And when
the snow has melt
the springboard floods
wash it all away

but my doubt gives me courage--
I venture to do better

There's always beauty
but we turn away
we don't care to see
and inherit a dull and dismal day-

so ugly is the word 'busy'
it keeps wonders at bay:
life is lived in dreadful monotony
and all is but debris and decay

I hate pills and potions, they cloud my view,
In my quest for peace, they sometimes ensue.
The labels and bottles, a daily reminder,
Of battles within, growing even kinder.

I despise the reliance, the chemical bind,
Searching for solace that’s gentle and kind.
In nature and whispers, I seek my reprieve,
Finding my balance in the breaths that I breathe.

The pills and potions, they may have a place,
But I yearn for more than their cold, sterile embrace.
In mindfulness, movement, and moments of grace,
I find a serenity that no pill can replace.

I hate pills and potions, but still, I endure,
Seeking my healing in ways that feel pure.
For in this journey, both long and profound,
I uncover the peace that’s internally found.

Waving sails in red and white
catch the breeze and early light,
shiny rich men's toys of the ocean
dance in lazy undular motion

Sunshine and
jelly beans
. . . some of the most
common of the ordinary things

Playing cards in bicycle
spokes . . . they could hear us coming , no joke !

No one could outrun me in my red Keds hightop tennis shoes

Staying after school for misbehaving in class
wasn't cool

Playing square ball as the autumn leaves fell . . .

Golden sunshine , Queen of the woods , a magical spell

I was living in my best imagination

I was nowhere . . .

then everywhere , giving it my all to tell

The aspens quiver, brittle spines trembling,
a broken orchestra of gold and ache,
her feet carve the earth raw,
mud smears like confession,
the world swallows her,
skin slick with its wet approval.

Here, the sky does not accuse.
It hangs, mute and thick,
secrets buried beneath roots,
writhing like forgotten daughters.
Her smallness presses against the weight,
a quiet scream lodged in her ribs.

The ground hums its absolution,
a Eucharist of dust and decay.
She, unmothered, unfathered,
folds herself into the soil’s indifference,
her anger spilling like blood in the light.