“But maybe life’s not meant to be all grand

And maybe lows are there to help us grow”

it wasn’t quite right, what I wrote before—

but I let the poem put up a fight,

and left the line that made me sigh

(there’s a rhyme to the reason,

and the reason was rhyme)

the line that I penned shouldn’t have been:

the pretty words did not have

the pretty facts to have their backs and

the wisdom that glowed and flowed before

I find I really must retract.

What I should have said is:

The valleys exist

not to teach us a lesson,

but because they do.

This does not change much—

sometimes you have to cross them

(you can, and you will)

and maybe sometimes

you have to journey alone

(but mostly you don’t)

The lows are not there

to test you, or force your growth,

strengthen you through pain—

ebbs are natural.

You will encounter many,

and you will survive.

Your life means something special

at every elevation.

“I just wish this world

was a better place for her,

and the kindness she carries.”

—a father laments

“With a light like hers,

she will find the good in it—

be the good in it.”

—a mother consoles

House Plant

Be a gift and stand right here:

for decoration,

for sunless spots.

Terrarium homes,

Terrarium habits,

a happy soul mixture— I mean,

soil mixture, and roots—

Soil and roots.

The lion of comfort

is just a cub in my bed,

new as a notion.

mistress of branches—

she tells the trees where to reach,

and where to fall after—

wildest princess with wind tangled waves,

her eyes mirror the grove, send men to their graves.

The rain falls and it

is simple;

(I could compare you

to the rain or me

to the flowers or)

I could just say that I love

you,

and let it be simple.

After endless grays,

a verdant shine at daybreak:

spring Green to greet me!

A color like new friendship

after lengths of loneliness—

so beloved that

the blues and yellows follow

to play in its wake—

a tangible hue,

to brush with fingers

and catch in lungs.

Camp

Songs that were old then

are even older now

ring and echo, echo—

The lake is dark;

and if your hair

at all resembles

seaweed—

the fish will tug

like it’s a game,

nip your toes

and flee.

We all bow here to the whims of the king:

the haughty snapping turtle,

presiding wherever and whenever he wants.

If dust was glitter

and it settled on the sky like

the surface of a table—

you’d have the Milky Way.

There are gardens painted

across serious faces:

too young to look so old

in the firelight.

Go on, their eyes say,

trip on through the trees.

No whispers but wind.

The moon is near now—

a shield against the darkness,

a foothold for hope—

a hand stretch away, moored high,

steady beacon in wild sea.

Belief

Could I

have loved

the desert

in another life?

If Dad

had been

different,

If we

never left—

would I still

see your face

or

face the sea

instead?

But you are

too dear

for a

cosmoglance—

and trees

are

a

need.

It’s fragile knowledge;

The words exist so thinly—

One could tear them up,

Or leave pages in the rain,

And they’d be gone forever.

Vampire Nightmares

It was fun playing backyard hero,

making monsters out of molehills,

shrieking victory by day—

but when the room went dark,

the blanket became

my only shield

to hide my

tasty

neck.

Abecedarian Poem

Big thank you to my 9 year old and 6 year old for writing this with me! 💕

A bear comes down each fall

growling hungrily

into juniper.

Kevin (the bear)

lazily munches

near outthrust precipices.

Quiet reigns.

Sunbathing tansyasters

undulate via wind.

Explore ye Zion!

Through frosts and flakes, the dandelions still wake, bright spots when the sun can’t cut it—

Then fade to gray, like we all will someday, grow soft, but not yet quiet.

Our roots will stay but wishes will play: on breath and on wind they scatter—

Small seeds of hope, endeavors to cope, elope with the breeze

and bloom after.

The way is not dark,

the tunnel will not narrow,

the fear won’t keep, and

never will your echo speak

of feet that forge on alone.

she fluttered for miles

to touch down here, on your skin,

bright like a flower

“Sleep” is the thing with thorns -

That blooms along the path -

And sways away when I reach and pray -

To pluck it in my grasp -

And when at last - I touch it - pricks

And stings along my palm -

Is such a rest worth all these tricks -

Should I keep furthering Along?

I’ve heard it is Important -

But so hard to obtain -

And tougher yet - to hold on tight,

Without fight - to Dream again.

Knock knock and who’s there—

Just a reminder of your

own mortality

and the sense of life trickling

like water through your fingers.

If this poem could

just trim down a little more

I’ll call it haiku

Every word— wait,

is “every” two syllables?

(Asking for haiku)

I really hate to do this to you, but

it’s something new and

I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, so

if you could help me

find a spot for this love?

And by the way,

What would happen if you only had one

but you took really good care of it?

What would happen if we didn’t move

for a hundred years?