The other day, I watched a video
talking about how special wood is—
how nowhere else in the universe
does such a thing exist;
how unlikely it is for these conditions
to grow trees and create this exact
substance on our planet to happen—
and I can’t get it out of my head.

I think about it sitting in
The Mercantile Library
as sun shines in through
these big arched windows
onto a crowd of folks
listening to my friend read
his beautiful book;
as sun touches these wood floors,
these wood tables,
and all these books printed on paper,
also made from wood, rare and amazing
and marked with words representing
thoughts of so many people who moved
through this world before me—
another extraordinary miracle.

I often recite the phrase
what a time to be alive
referencing the awful things
we’re all witnessing
in this complicated reality,
but what if I started thinking
about wood and paper
and words and all this beauty
shoved into places
between the horrors instead?

Indeed, what a time to be alive.

            “You, Lord, Keep my lamp
              burning”                          
                               — Psalm 18:28a  

Things are not always what they seem
and I question optics when they state
the science of light and color is what we see

when an object does not absorb
a specific band of the spectrum. 
Your skin seems as if powdered

when it catches passive illumination
whether from ultraviolet or mundane
source.  It is just as soft as it appears

in that light and there is something
to be said for it, even there, even when
it is not being bathed

by greater source.  But when it is,
you defy optics.  You rise above the natural

world.  Under the amber
of streetlamps, or the moon, it is
metallic, a sheen without need

of moisture, a liquid shine that is
caramel latte to my lips, my tongue,
capturing and holding my attention

in wonder:  The way you take
what little luminance whispers the dark
and create a candle’s glow no candle could

hope to hold.  But when you
stand beneath the heat of the sun,
you, truly, come alive;

caramel stretches taut across
a furnace, a crucible, volcanic
depths of burnished gold,

as if suffused with fire
and saffron-hot coals
pulsing with the bellows

of life.  Optics tell us what we see
is purely the spectrum not absorbed
but refracted, reflected, rejected

and therefore what is seen is not
what is latent or inherent or even
part of the truth of a thing.

But for you, I must disagree;
when you stand beneath the Light
shining in this dark world,

what is held, what is beheld, what is
alive beneath the surface of your form
is more than proof of what you are:

It is proof
there even is
a God.

Speak to me
as if the translation
upon my lips has
prolonged extinction.

Use your words to whisper
wisdom, faith, and love—-
I’ll hold onto.

Speak to me
tenderheartedly and I
will grant you
       everlasting joy

Hazy
not clear
across heavy forehead 
above hard brow bone
sheltering tired open liquid eyes
stuffed to brim clogged nasal passages  
alongside neck stiff sore shoulders and bones

I was not important  

When I walked, my GPS was a nursery rhyme    
                                                     an earworm
the nose of a hungry dog  

When I flew, there was no sonic boom  

I chased sirens, hoped to be the emergency     
                                                    the first responder  

Arms sprung from my chest, reached for moons                              
                                                     grasped air                                                    

Walls between inside and outside
never really held  

My life was stolen fire
What burned was the illusion it was mine

Stability 
Comes at a cost 
Too great for me to pay 
Yet I trade & trade 
& trade 
Myself 
To make up 
Someone worth 
Being 

It was small and soft, just fit
my hand.  I stroked its head,
hard beneath my fingers,
and its fluffy back and sides,
a flickered tan with a yellow
belly.  I could talk to it,
smooth its feathers.
It was mine alone.  No one
need know.  I could put it
in my top drawer along
with my panties.  But then
they said it would smell.
I couldn’t keep it.  Back
it went under the bushes
where I found it.

pretty tongue silver
forked, flicks, tickles
your ear illustrious, glints
hypnotic songs, beats
a rhythm your
tympanic membrane
can get behind
                  entrancing
like a snake coiled up
in a basket, in a tree
making eye contact –
go on and grab it, 
break it, bend it, bite it
off, why don’t you,
next time it strikes or flits
out of your own mouth

in a country house
a gathering of friends
warm stone hearth
shadowy fire moving

a mother searching
the firelight finds
her lost boy
and dreams she is saved