The paths I wander
beneath Appalachian foothills
wind along Brush Creek,
where limestone glimmers below the water’s skin,
and crayfish slip like secrets
under shelves of ancient shale.

I pause at the edge
where cardinal and goldfinch argue among sycamore crowns,
their songs threading through dawn’s sapphire hush,
while a chorus of frogs—spring’s viridescent musicians—
fill the low places with their tremulous praise.

I breathe the story of Berea:
air sweet with wild blackberries
and the distant cut of hay—
fields stitched with Queen Anne’s lace (or Hemlock – sometimes it is hard to tell the difference)
and the bruised colbalt of chicory,
each blade and blossom
shaping memory with gentle hands.

Here, the woods are thick with pawpaw,
hickory, sugar maple—
roots knotting deep as kin,
moss soft as the prayers
whispered on Nana’s porch
when storms pass through and lightning writes
its runes above the ridges.

How could any painted canyon,
any orchid’s impossible hunger,
awaken such quiet fullness
as these shadowed hollows,
these limestone fence lines
stitched by the invisible labor
of rain and time and roots?

Neglected memories come softly—
the rasp of gravel under bike tires,
laughter echoing down the railroad tracks,
the taste of creek water
drunk from cupped hands
on a day so hot
even the cows in the pasture
move only for shade.

Every inhale brings the wild spice
of goldenrod and sassafras,
the ancient patience of cedar,
the sharp verdant promise
of ferns unfolding among rocks.

This is the land that tempers me,
sorting what is sorrow
from what will be remembered—
a land that quiets old noise,
that softens the tangled ache of longing
like river stone turned smooth
in the palm of a returning child.

And always,
beneath it all,
the silent persistence of home:
spring water and hillside,
foxglove and field,
the low lazy mist that gathers
when evening calls
and woodsmoke threads
the valley’s hush.

Perhaps it is only a pause
to catch my breath,
but here,
in the soft light on the ridges,
I remember the joy that waits
in coming back—
and in the small, steady wildness
of staying.

There was a widow woman,

Who lived upon a hill,

Her husband has long since left her,

But she’s living there still.

She has no one to help her,

Draw water or split wood,

She’d surely like to take a break,

And she would if she could.

But the world marches on,

And it hurries past her door,

She focuses on the day to day,

With few thoughts of much more.

Holding all together,

That she and he had made,

How she’d like to appreciate it,

While seated in the shade,

But there’s no time for sitting,

There’s so many hours to fill,

When life is lived all alone,

Like the widow on the hill.

there is small comfort to be found in this lonely
chronicle of midnight brooding
constellations that peek shyly past dustings of
cloud across the sleeping sky
ever the faithful companion to the heartsick poet
reflecting back in gentle, silvery luminesce
all the words she finally got brave enough to say

From 2002- 2008, my morning commute was like clockwork, but no matter where I stood on the platform, even when I dared enter a different subway car than that which would arrive in front of my “usual” spot, a woman managed to enter the same subway car. As soon as the doors shut, she shouted and passionately read Bible passages to us from Fordham Rd. to West 4th Street. Approximately 45 minutes straight, only stopping for air or the occasional sip of water. Sometimes, I wonder where she is. I wonder where she went when she exited the turnstile at the West 4th Street station. This one’s for her, wherever she is.

“stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

**bee             boo**

                      thud.

her black coat glittered with gold verse

               as she rolled her wrist and slid her sleeve

to open a well-worn brown book with gold gilt edging 

                                             and

                 to recite what she’s read time and time again.

lady, we all heard you found Jesus, but

                          I’d like to know where you were

                                                                             where He was

when He showed up

                                                    or

                                                                              how you found Him, exactly—

                                       was it by accident?

did He bump into you on Sixth Avenue?          

                                            did He burst through the bathroom door

in an old tenement building 

                                            without knocking, urgently tugging at His fly?

did you close your eyes and whisper a prayer?

                                            did you reveal stigmata wounds

in the arms of a man resembling Pilate– 

                                                                          turn your head at the sight of blood?

did you savor the slipping chance of tasting salvation?

                                               I don’t think I found Jesus.

           I’m not sure I was ever supposed to look for Him.

 I’m not a good Catholic. 

God didn’t bless me with faith, 

                             if that’s how it even works. 

                                                                                  what little faith I may have had

                      must be bouncing along 

                                                    the slight wobble of the earth’s endless rotation.

       I may have left it in a coat closet I cleaned earlier this week

                            but I can’t be sure.

I don’t know that I ever found Jesus.

                                                             was He ever missing?

                                      I don’t see flyers with His face bending around the curves on 

the rusty 

                 staple-adorned 

                                              telephone poles lining Queens Boulevard.

I’ve passed the same poster for a missing cockapoo for about a year.

                                                     I’m tempted to call the number at the bottom of the

weathered poster to see if they found him,

                                                                                       but I never do.

I thought I saw him on the train once-– 

                                                               Jesus.

       He was wearing Ray-Bans and Birkenstocks.

                                   I’m pretty sure he transferred to the L to Williamsburg;

                                                      I took the E to Forest Hills.

I thought

                                                       I saw him in the eyes 

             of the women                                                                                 selling fruit 

                                                  on   the Major Deegan       

                                                           (northbound)

but I was too busy humming along to a soft rock tune that I’d rather not name

                                    because, I am too chicken shit to admit I like it. 

I thought I saw Him in the line of tail lights snaking around the bend

                                                   at the foot of the George Washington Bridge,

                             but it couldn’t be

because I forgot the words to “This Little Light of Mine”–

                              I whistled it instead,

            so if people pulled up next to me and heard the melody

I could tell myself I’m a better person than I really am.

you see, I’m not sure if Jesus needs finding;

He may actually be avoiding us,

dodging this idea of a second coming,

because attending once is all you really need to do

                                    to be remembered for trying to save others…

                                                          right?

after all the sacrifices are made,

people continue to

request.

plead.

beg.

cry.

hope.

wish.

demand–

                                                                    of Jesus 

                                         for what is 

                                                                                or is not happening 

to them

for them

around them

even when they say it’s for someone else,

it never is,

really(.)

according to a Jesuit scholar whose scholarship specializes in Assyriology,

 “humans are incapable of true Agape…”

he explains:

“…even in wanting for others, there is a speck of wish that hope is fulfilled, the very nature of that desire to want, even for another, misses the mark of pure selflessness of which only God is capable…” 

                         even if it’s only by a microscopic step along an invisible Planck.

                                                     damn.

                                    that’s harsh for an 8 am lecture.

thankfully,

we.                                            can.                                        try.                                                 again.

tomorrow.

maybe the rapture isn’t on its way;

maybe it’s already here

and we’re all waiting for it like fools stuck behind

“the train traffic ahead of us”

perhaps,

“we’ll be moving shortly”

too bad we’re stuck sitting

on the B train that never arrives on-time,

while others wax and wane in phases of faith

along the sweltering platform at Fordham Road,

and we’re all too late

                                                                                       because

Jesus already took the bus to Coney Island to catch the sunset,

to wave to the kids at Luna Park

who watch from the rides & dare him to walk on water.

They chant,

“Do it! —

Do it! —

Do it!”–

I hope He disappears without uttering a single word to anyone,

even if he only leaves for a 3-day getaway.

an underpaid security guard will find His hoodie at the top of the Rock,

the makeshift, modern-day shroud claiming He’s somebody’s ‘homeboy’—

a tacky fad from a sportive pre-9/11 past.

upon His return

                                                from the lost and found box

where some still confess (weekly)

others will bear false witness

                                                   and tell the children it’s a miracle. 

I’ve sent these daily poems

My mind takes

The leaps of a child

Over rivers and puddles

Logic and reason

Nothing makes sense

Without my big jumps

It’s too late 

To walk among the butterflies
inside the temporary exhibit
at the Louisville Zoo,
down the hill from the lone lobo
pacing the limits of his enclosure,
and the white rhino, among
the last of her species,

is to see words take shape,
flit from mouth to ear,
some missing, landing
on stems of arrowroot and sage,
others skittering to the floor
not to rise again,

such as those when I said
my happiness
is not dependent
on you.

I envy those that can write