Posts for June 22, 2020



If I write 100 poems, I’ll surely have written one worthy
of being laid atop a bouquet of violets and purple orchids,
gently nestled alongside the other flowers
that seem to grow from the grass
that covers your sleeping body. Every word I write
is for you, even if
it doesn’t sound like it. For

you are the peace
that I pray to. You are the hope
that I sing to. You are the love
that I wish could be in my arms.

For you still come to me in bursts,
lights brighter than a dream – surely
one way or another,
you must be real.
You must be waiting for me

somewhere else,
where the sun shines brighter.


On receiving a gift for no reason

I unpack my days slowly now,
peeling off tape,
leaning in to 
inhale surprise 
rising through
the gaps
of the gift box.
I wait hours
before I return
to open
a single
cardboard flap,
finding the handwritten note
that I read
and read again
before bed.
I wait until daylight
to lift the gift–
a glass jar of homemade jam–
at last
from its wrapping.
In this way,
I spread my delight
over time,
so I don’t become dizzy.



Curvy and lined with trees
A 20 minute drive
going the speed limit
A 10 minute drive
With the green fading together
Filled with hills that get your stomach
And bridges with the creek underneath
You give me time to think
And let me play my music as loud as I want
You are my friend, and my therapy.


an orange haze of lights

the gas station is lit up
with an orange haze of lights
the lightning bugs fly around
insects of miniscule magic
the night provides relief



While the world enflames
and my heart rages,
I consider how to
combat police brutality
sew a mask
eliminate carbon footprints.

But when your hand slides up my leg
and underneath my dress,
I lose focus
and ponder better ways to burn.


Picking sugar snaps peas—a preview for cataracts—

they hide among leaves

they sprout behind your picking— 

           like rabbits 

in the clover field.



Death is a cloudbank, building.
Do not hand me your precious
(my own cannot be trusted) I
will drop them, breaking
like bones. I will
use shards
to poke out the marrow.


Just a dream

It was so real
the sights, smells, and the people
in my dream were very familiar
there was a feeling of deja vu

Until the moment that 
the person that I was hugging
faded into nothing as
I opened my eyes

It was morning
I had not been hugging
my deceased mother after all
it was just a dream



Behind it all is the deluded
truth, honest as a fickle
fancy, telling all it knows.
Where to go now, after
illusions took to root,
and grew?
No one knew it could be so,
until it was well past due.


The Rising of a Season

And though the sun may set
on simpler days, I still find joy
in the breeze, the shade,
and a cool popsicle
melting away in the harshness
of summer and solitude.