as two thousand and fourteen 

makes way for something new

so too do i

what it shall be is

a mix of magic and mystery,

intention and imagination 

the brief time we are here

is in the shifting of sand

and the rooting of strength 

as it reaches 

for the light

with hopes the new year hold this light

close to each of our hearts 

and we all remember to shine 

xo

all the ways

to look out a window
see the things beyond our*selves


a thin pane of glass keeping us in 
or out

i am thankful for so many and so much

the veil between every second 
that flutters without thought of breath

xo

#Eight~Missing You

Dear J,

I was missing you, am missing you. Your smirky grace and denim pedal pushers, your chicken and biscuits, your abiding love. I wonder back on your last weeks and days, your last breaths. Your pain and life purpose. 

A mother of five, a husband with needs, waiting.

A big house, sunshine.

What is it you miss? What might you regret?

What might you offer to me to blossom, to bloom, to grow?

What was the taste of love that died with you—the taste of your love?

Each of us with a different potion—a small slim bottle called remedy.

Where do you sit now? I feel you sometimes on the edge of my bed. 

A pressure that is holding a space. Do you see me, us? 

Do you feel this breeze, see theses shadows dancing?

Do you smell the chopped herbs? Hear the laughter of others?

I am searching, on the search, seeking, hunting, hoping a place, a soil. 

A soul. A way to be.

There are purple flowers that have left the plant hanging from a metal scroll.

They are dying.

I released our two goldfish last week into a friend's pond, it was swimming with a dozen or so smaller fish. Pancho and Amber are now the big kids in the reeds and lily pads--no glass-wall holding them back. 

I miss their quiet wisdom and patience, the way they trusted me to feed them, clean their tank, sing to them while I folded clothes. (They lived in the laundry room. They had a nice view to the north and on the wall a pin-up of two wild and burly fish.) 

I bought them to replace a hole. 

Some holes can't be filled. 

They got too big for the tank, for my heart. 

Close to the Surface

Their roots began long before they were imagined by me

yet somehow they were always to be mine.

They came between my very shores,

rivers of blood and mucus, sugar and salt.

They slithered, later walked upon shiny waters,

opened the way to miracles,

and later faith,

if this is what love defines.

Each of them left with a piece of a tooth,

for trade they offered me thin silver streaks,

some call stretch marks,

shimmery like minnows

close to the surface of the pond

that helped to raise them.

So many things

all touching one another.

Snowball fights, macaroni art, small metal cars.

.

The tooth fairy, hats worn backwards, campfires,

spilled milk

.

all this and more.

Nothing will compare with how my heart has swelled to this 

enormous size.

Whale bones in the afternoon

We receive word-in the early morning-that a dear friend has died.
I stand and look down at the bleached massive bones in front of me.
I see the smaller finger bones.
I am amazed. I am also numb.
I witness places where things are hinged together.

Bone against bone.
Heart against heart.

I wish Bruce back on earth.
More time for him, and me, and the big whale too.
xo

My Larry has been creating spoons and spatulas, wonderful vessels that feed us, from scraps of lovely downed madrone trees. 

And, I have a new typewriter, excepting it isn't new. It is old and heavy and carries the smell of many memories...old coins, my father-in-law's upstairs office, my dad's trombone,and Heffernan Press, the place he once worked. Old printing presses clanging out pages of the written word. Now when I touch my computer keys the noise seems to fall away with each new letter. xo

silent silence

here again,
waking to a new day.
the weight of my body,
the taste of my mouth.
a new morning.
aware i am never alone.

wondering how to get to the place of silent silence,
where my mind becomes my breath.

i sweep webs from the corners of the room.

from my heart the strings 

are impossible to reach--intricate silver threads holding small morsels, 

caught and wrapped, too high to sweep away. 

too sacred to destroy. 

the things held here are ancient, they remind me of my pasts. 

some of the tangles are just this.

a home for that thought. that feeling. 

that other heart that touched mine. 

some things i understand,
some things i never will.

For David Whyte

I wrote myself a love note and gave it away.

a bird in the bamboo

carries one seed

of memory,

small and golden,

a grain-tinctured beak

drenched

in its own morning song

light pressed

against me

I handed it to a man, in a crumpled sweat-stained shirt. He put it in his pocket.

I imagine it went through the washer.

In the dryer it turned into confetti,
a thing to throw at love

along with the name I was born with.

A conversation begins right now.