There's something about chunky Crayola markers
sliding over grainy construction paper canvas
which returns the self to
the freedom,
the purity,
the ease
of childhood.

There's something about chunky Crayola markers
sliding over grainy construction paper canvas
which insists on "yes"
in a world full of "noes."

There's something about chunky Crayola markers
sliding over grainy construction paper canvas
which nourishes the soul
with an overwhelming sense
of possibility.

There's something about chunky Crayola markers
sliding over grainy construction paper canvas.

Today I took a walk,
and I hugged a tree—
or perhaps I clung to it in grief.
Maybe they're the same?

She held me close and spoke:
Hello there, little one.
Take a look above you.
See all our branches spread,
intertwining near and far?
This is the place of the leaves,
of the comings and goings,
of the seasons cycling through.
This is the historical dimension,
and this is where you're stuck.

You sense the movement,
you're dazzled by the action,
and you strive for connection here,
but the winds will always come.

Instead, close your eyes.
Lean on me,
and I'll show you rest.

Let us go down,
grounding within ourselves.
Feel these roots spreading wide?
Though you think my leaves are my lips,
this here is my true tongue.
This is where my strength resides,
interwoven with my sisters' spirits.

Oh, little one, can't you see?
The ultimate is the unseen.

Do not open your eyes.
Learn to open yourself.

Today I took a walk,
and I hugged a tree,
for I was lost, you see?
Not lost in land, though,
but lost in myself.

I stayed there for a while,
breathing,
and breathing,
and breathing.

She stayed there with me,
for she knows eternity better,
having released it each year
with the dropping of her leaves.

In memory of Mary Oliver

A woman who finds her light
And shares it freely,
Allowing it to fly
with golden wings
Toward all who search
With open hands,
that's it.

That's taking a deep breath
Filled with ten thousand joys
And ten thousand sorrows
And shouting until
the lungs scream bare,
Shouting until
the trees shiver in delight,
Shouting because
the soul is sure.

"Yes, yes, yes," she shouts,
Shouted without a sound,
Shouted solely with her being.

January 7
We are all stories
Sharing yours becomes of mine
Your page guides my pen

June 11
Repotting the plants
Here is life held in my hands
I grow new leaves, too

November 12
It's a day of mud.
Even though growth is coming,
I am still a grouch.

I wonder and I wonder
how society would act
if turns each were taken
learning stories of impact.

Impactful stories?
Wait, what do I mean?
I lift the realities of life,
which reveal human gleam.

There’s the bare, open wrist
where a watch once ticked.
Between the time and a meal,
can you taste which he picked?

Or the woman with cancer,
(her friend says, “buck up,”)
skipping one round of chemo
for a birthday perk-up.

And then there’s homeless Harley,
just trying to live,
but breaking down in tears
when they had no kindness to give.

I simply gave them space,
and I simply let them be.
I was not blinded
to our common humanity.

Most folks I never saw
once our life crossing was through,
but they all marked my path,
making me see life anew.

How do I explain
a greater world understanding?
I felt pain, joy, and sorrow,
but through someone else’s branding.

Though words cannot hold
all I’m trying to employ,
I can take refuge for now
in this moment of joy:

After several months passed
Harley returned once more,
this time with bright news:
“I’m getting my own front door!”