I don't
understand
myself
anymore.
I think
I'm blurry,
nothing
is
clear
right now.
I think
my color is
faded,
incorrect,
the wrong shade of me.
I think
I need
to
be
redefined,
made clear.
Can someone
clarify
me?

silent as
the   middle of the ocean
quiet as the spider in a corner
comforting no one and seeking
none
just being

63

If pain for peace prepares
Lo, what “Augustan” years
Our feet await!

If springs from winter rise,
Can the Anemones
Be reckoned up?

If night stands fast—then noon
To gird us for the sun,
What gaze!

When from a thousand skies
On our developed eyes
Noons blaze!

There is a place where the rivers flow, and the weary eagles lay low,
It’s behind the shields of the earth, where the mountains serve as kings.
Displaying glory, wildlife, and peace, there’s a highway where the angels go.
And the battle of the night disappears, where nature finds power and healing.

It’s in the wounds, it’s in the blood, and it’s in the spirit,
That leads angels between the ring of mountains.
In the blue horizon, they swiftly sing in perfect lyrics.
And the land is laden in pure snow, healing the nations.

Like the clouds of the sky, in the thunder, you can see,
The six silver wings, and the Spirit that’ll set us free.

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.