I’d call you my firefly– only you signal me all year round. 

Lolling in bed
eyes shut, I say,
“The morning is running
away from us.”
You reply, “We’ll run
after it,” as you brush my arm.

So I hoist myself upright,
hobble forward, and greet
the waiting cat, who gallops
down the stairs, as I follow,
step by careful
step.

today I long for shadows
cool ravines
green all around
creeks calling me to cross
trails available, inviting a roam
blue sky, exposed only through leaves
dampness underfoot
silence except natural sounds
no voices
peace in a quiet place
beauty all around
the world, yes, the same world
only miles from home yet oh so far away
time to stop, stand still, evaluate
hear myself breathe
allow myself no decisions
     except which path to take

One’s desires should behave themselves
like children in Sunday clothes.  

Life and death is a red herring –
the cooking jar has no bottom.  

Unread poems are bird seed
left in an empty feeder  

We should sweep our apartment for bugs:
Siri, sweep my apartment for bugs.  

You have to consciously stop
before you can start.

In this sweltering heat,
I think of cool nights
spent entwined with you.

Your sweet lips of succour,
pulling from me sweet
sighs of relief. 

Now my mind surely,
swelters too.

Furry forehead kissed.
Wallet, keys, phone, glasses, lunch.
You’re on watch now, bud.

A tough climb between
this noble thought and deed: not
eating after dark.

My best intent may fall to
the intense presence of one

and then just one more.
That one becomes another—
more morning regret.

For almost 100% of human beings,
we are completely forgotten
in less than five generations

Our names may still be 
on a piece of paper somewhere
    —an electric bill; a signed check—
but those who knew us
in the flesh will have 
also Moved On

    So what’s the point, then?

The point is this, at least
in terms of physics:
you are a completely unique feature
of the universe–
there has never been
someone made exactly like you
(not even if you have a twin),
nor will there ever be again

    and (bonus!)

you walk a path through 
spacetime that exists
only because you are
creating it

your name and likeness
is not the part of you that
changes the universe–permanently–
it is the part of you that choose to act:

    to say–or not say
    to do–or not do

each choice you make
may not seem to change 
the entire universe,
but that is only because
we are blinded by scale:

(the ant on the sidewalk means little to us, but our descending foot means everything to the ant)

but trust me, you matter–

you will create
and you will destroy

and it is entirely up to you
where the balance point lays

I had no idea that Flamingos would become important to me
My son loved them and I loved seeing the fun, outrageous
ways that he incorporated them into his life
Like, the 5 foot metal statue in his apartment,
flamingo slippers, flamingo clothing, and sun glasses

Since his death, flamingos have made me smile because
they remind me of the fun side of his personality that
was sometimes hidden behind the illness that he battled
on a daily basis, it often overshadowed his personality
and his huge giving heart, would be raw and hurting

I try to keep the good memories flowing, but the pain
of his mental health journey keeps coming to the surface,
and flamingos were a special part of his journey, that 
he chose to embrace in the midst of his illness, and they made
him smile and gave him happiness in the midst of pain

So, when I saw a huge sequin flamingo for sale yesterday,
I knew it needed to become part of my life, so I am
trying to find the perfect space for this monstrosity and other
loud, beautiful, pink reminders that my son was a fun, 
special, beautiful person that I will always love, no matter what!

The clover’s come back thick around the edge of the garden,
and the wrens have returned to the same crooked gourd I strung on a wire last spring.

This morning, the breeze smelled faintly of sweetgrass
and something older—
a whisper from the dirt that didn’t ask for forgiveness because it never sinned.

I sat with my coffee, listening to the creek’s thin sermon,
and thought of Ivan Karamazov, his forehead in his hands,
rejecting a world where children suffer.

My backyard does not argue.
It grows.
It bears witness in moss and spiders and silence.
It does not rage against God or man,
but it does not forget, either.

Some days I’m Alyosha,
offering kindness like twine, hoping it holds.
Some days I am Dmitri,
wild with want, trying to outrun my own story.
And sometimes—God help me—
I am Ivan,
reading the news and walking away
from belief like it’s a burning shed.

But then a finch lands on the edge of the rain barrel.
Then a bee hums low in the mint.
Then the wind lifts a corner of last year’s leaf mulch,
revealing a single green shoot,
insisting on its right to return.

And suddenly, I am no one from a Russian novel—
just a woman in Berea,
barefoot in the grass,
trying to answer with her hands.