May the universe,
In its boundless grace,
Bless you, O’ friend,
With joy in every place.

May success greet you,
Like the dawn’s first light,
Guiding your path,
And making each day bright.

May happiness fill you,
Like rivers that flow,
With laughter and cheer,
Wherever you go.

May love surround you,
Like the stars in the sky,
Forever its warmth,
Shining never to die.

May your heart be light,
And your burdens be few,
With peace in your soul,
And your dreams coming true.

May joy be your companion,
At each step you take,
And success in your ventures,
No matter what’s at stake.

May the garden of love,
Where blooms the divine,
Be yours to wander,
In this life so fine.

O' soul, this prayer,
I offer to you,
May your days be bright,
With blessings anew.

Merry Christmas
And a Happy New Year too.

i can never change what was  
i just move forward to what is
...

The house smells wonderful,
Golden and buttery as this morning’s delicious sunrise on our front porch,
And your eyes twinkle as I venture a first bite.
“Pretty good, right?”
It’s a quesadilla and it’s perfect,
exactly to my preference.
Warmly brown and crisp on the outside,
Cold sour cream mingling with too much hot melty cheese and chicken and all the fixins.
A real knock out as far as quesadillas go.

I smile with my eyes and happily munch,
not especially hungry but I know you are.
You spoke this into existence,
A master of your own love language.
In many ways, I am fed.

.

Ingratitude does not become us;
I eat of your hand and rejoice the offering
As my brain whispers:
“My love, please leave me to myself.”

These days I am as two ships passing,
So rare an hour is it to shake my own hand,
Cull my own thoughts,
Breathe my silent breath unaccompanied.

Spinning sugar and spinning wheels are my god-given gifts.
I use the first to coat my tongue.
The second hangs in the air between us.

“Better than good,” I say,
Moving to rest,
To dream my silly dreams,
To paint my silly heart across the mercurial landscape of shared memory.

I am my best when I end my days like a spoiled Pomeranian:
Seated on a cushion
Worrying a bone.

.

The mysterious clicking and clacking of the HVAC tip taps merrily to the rush and whir of the electric heat.
The impression of a kiss still lingers on my cheek
In the quiet.

The house smells wonderful,
Golden and buttery as this morning’s delicious sunrise on our front porch.
It is a miracle to build a structure with your bare hands that bends without breaking,
and supports your weight without shaking.

I would like to take myself very seriously.

I’d like to be a painterly writer,
Like Nabokov,
Or a wry storyteller like Jenny Lewis.

Comparison, especially to this degree,
Is the thief of joy I hear,
And I am but me.

A professor once scolded me during a practicum session,
“This is not a dog-and-pony show.”

But she’s wrong.
It is.
It’s all nonsense and I get to be the ring master.
What could be more joyful than that?

Maybe Nabokov is a creep
Maybe Jenny Lewis is a Hollywood mirage,
And maybe I’m just a silly little goose
Who puts thoughts on paper
As if I deserve it just as much.