What if I was the kind of person who wore stars in her hair?
Who found solace in silence?

What if I was the kind of person whose fear of heights didn’t keep her from mountaintops?
Who donned a cape to keep her warm?

What if I was the kind of person who didn’t apologize just to have something to say?
Who believed in tiny joys that no one else can see?

What if I was the kind of person who caught the tail of an idea like the ribbon of a kite as it’s lifted by a breeze?
Who has the courage to follow?

What if I was the kind of person who got lost in pleasure and delight?
I can nearly see her.

Perhaps you’ve forgotten my name,
so I will remind you.

I am Sara, lover of words
and handmaiden of hope.

I stand by the shore,
beaming out a thousand watts
toward passing ships.

I have danced with grief
and lived to tell the tale.

I marched into battle
and slayed a dragon
with 50,000 words.

In the aftermath, I have stood in silence
in the the shadow of old growth giants
and marveled at all the peace
where my demons used to be.

I may look small,
but my roots plunge deep and wide.
I take up space.
And with my space, I rest in peace.

The world has always been
a strange place,
and we have always been
drawn to its mysteries.

People disappear-
fall right off the map,
and leave us with the weight
of all our questions.

Sickness descends
upon the earth,
and takes who it wants.
Though we name it and learn
its wills and its ways,
all our advancements
can’t vanquish it.

Not yet.

And then there’s the forest
and the mountains
and the ocean,
with all their dark corners
and unanswerable riddles.

Some things aren’t meant to be known.

Let your eyes linger
in the shadows

Your vision adjusts
the light shifts

Hush now

Wait and see
what watches you
lingering in the shadows

There is a particular cruelty
in the coming and going
of the monthly curse
in the heart of the barren.

A punishment
of gore and pain
to remind me of my body’s
inhospitable nature
and all it’s emptiness.

A never failing arrival,
always on time
like the train,
but still a shock,
like stumbling upon
a crime scene.

I’ll never make peace with it.

I am building a shelter
here in the silence  

The pause between breaths
the moment when even my heart
gathers her rest, between beating  

I can’t stay long  

The scratching of pen on paper
a faraway helicopter
my gurgling belly
small feet running up the path  

I’ll come again
when I can