My husband has been dead
for a year and almost ten months
as I sift slowly through
his belongings
They are mine to sort, now
I find the love letters
his first wife wrote him
and some notes he wrote her
They sear my hands and
I drop them

I set them aside, for awhile
And then I gather them
up, and wrap them in
cellophane
They’re safe this way
They sit for a long time

My husband has been dead
for two years, nine months, and two days
the day I carry these notes
in my car
to his ex-wife
and I float above them,
apart from them
They are not mine to carry,
any longer
They never were —
but I am a caretaker,
and I do take care
of those I love.

Wind sighs through my soul
that sheds weights of old
In the cold of the earth
is the deepest fire of life
and a diamond is revealed
in the night's raindrop before me.
The sorrow of the trees
is that of the buddha,
always watching these mortals
blow, blow and die without knowing
ever, truly, that all is well...
To forgive for the pain,
that too hurts like a hurricane,
a gale of longing and want
for the plant to grow up sure —
attracted by sun, grounded by dirt
and ever-expanding into air,
somehow a part of the forest
between bricks and mortar floundering
on a roughshod foundation.
May the peace of nature take root
and breathe a future more true.



- May 2012 (unearthed)

A home is the basis
of a turning in the sky
A patch of ground, wet,
reflects the gray above
A person tramps through,
marking space with steps
Another person stops here,
caught up in a thought
A tangle of forms seem
to be separate, apart
yet form the very fabric
of this life, utterly basic
and just another rubric.





- Dec 10, 2019

Some days,
you're stuck behind
the garbage truck.
You just need to plug your nose,
and suck it up.
The windshield wipers
clear the rain,
again and again.
Do you feel the same 
itch within your soul?
I see a smiling face
in my mind,
and wonder where I might find
true communion,
endless light.
First, clear out the trash.
Keep moving down the road.




- Jan 22 '20

Today, spring is hot and thick,
felt on the fingertips like oil
slick between your pads —
And promise blows through trees
drunk on new leaves and green,
green growth that almost glows—

We forget what year it is
and how old our bodies are,
remembering every other spring,
a bounty of birth potential
glimpsed in fluffy bunnies, fuzzy chicks
making us want to gambol & skip…

Flying down the freeway again,
the wind is no less harsh
but my mein is that much more mellow
My face heats and I am awash
in hope for a future more bright.

– April 24, 2013

Tonight