I laid my heart
At this hearth
When I was too young to know
That I was doing so,
Too young to hear
These bricks whisper in my ear
“You’ll always belong here”
Since they’d soaked in
The faint impression
Of my discarded laughter
And preserved it long after
Me and my sounds
Had moved on.

I was too young to think
That the complicated thing
About the eventual aging
Of homes and their people
That never used to seem old
Is they’re so much a part of you
That they’ll break you apart
Once their crumbling health
Refuses to reverse and heal.

A funeral
Never feels real.

I laid this hearth
In my heart
At our farewell
So I could fare it well,
Buoyed by grand heritage
That rises like grace with age,
When we are old enough
To savor each laugh
And care what lasts.

Life is weird.
The forms it takes,
the moves it makes.
Every peek into
strange dimensions
of water, desert,
history, coincidence
stabs and shreds
our self-drawn
mind maps.
Try again.
Humans might be
prickly and defensive
about the boundaries
we’ve imagined
around reality,
but it doesn’t stop
reality from poking us,
jarring us,
forcing us to accept
a little more.

Our foremothers
Have not left us.
They hover unseen
Both in spirit and in blood.
Their fears and outrage
Live on inside DNA strands
That compel us to strive
For fairness and compassion.
They swept dirt floors
And buried babies
In a legacy of grit
That reminds us
To value life over lifestyle.
When heartbreaks rip us open
They are whispering,
“You are strong
Because you’re made of
Fibers that we spun.
Keep spinning the world,
Little one.
Make it stronger still.”

Foggy days feel apropos,
A reminder from the universe
Of the true state of things—
We can’t see what’s ahead
Or even what’s behind
As clearly as we think,
The big-picture view shrouded
By a mist of ever-shifting perceptions
And expectations.
C’est la vie.
At least in the fog
We can remember
How little we know.

I struggled climbing up,
Legs and lungs groaning
At the task.
Coming down,
My knees screamed
And then tantrummed,
Refusing to work
The rest of the day.
It’s incredible,
Really,
That what our body protests
Can be a triumvirate of joy—
Past, present, and future:
Pretty memories of snow-capped peaks
And glittering piles of fat crystals;
Genuine smiles along the way
For the pleasure of company
Both human and wild;
Fickle muscles somehow anxious
To repeat the challenge soon,
Complaints already waved off.

Our pocket of the world
Is engulfed in violent flames
That turn our blue sky
Gray as ash.

I’m afraid for the firefighters,
Afraid for the residents,
Afraid for the forests,
Afraid for the future.

If I spell out that fear,
Will it lessen
Or consume me
Even more?

How do I find
A zen-like peace
When the acrid smell of smoke
Pollutes every in-breath?

When we are helpless
Against colossal destruction,
And tears won’t douse the fires,
Do we cry anyway?

I’m weeping for the world
Whether it helps or not;
I’m praying for the sky
To mourn with me.

Pioneer spirit
Runs, tenacious,
Like a wild stream
Around and through
Every obstacle.
It runs in families,
Each generation
Determined and resourceful
Like you wouldn’t believe.
It runs through my mind
Every so often,
The thought that
We each pioneer
Our own way,
Brave as can be.

There’s a metaphor here—
Something to the effect of
Life is a puzzle
And everything is interconnected
Even though you can’t see
How all the pieces fit …
Because someone sat on
The big picture.

No filter—
Light and colors
Blushing
Authentically
In their nakedness,
Vulnerable
And maybe shy
Without makeup
To bolden
Each hue.
Isn’t it lovely
To be real?

Even if the handrails are gone
And your thoughts may drown you,
Go down the slick rough-hewn stairs
Into the sweeping tide of your soul
To squeal and laugh at what scares you.
Watch how the moon stays visible
Beyond the night into morning
Like a mother always nearby,
And remember that She’s there
Even when you can’t see Her.
Feel safe, let go, find joy.