This morning I’m so tired 

from pushing myself hard,

that as I drive down this country road

I can’t bring myself to go

anywhere close to the speed limit.

I feel like a silver haired lady

peeking over my steering wheel

as I creep along, letting 

the cars whiz by me.

I always assume the elderly

go slowly because they’re cautious,

not wanting to hit anyone 

or miss the ambulance

racing down the road with siren blaring.

But maybe they’ve figured out

a secret that I’m still trying to learn.

What if driving slowly

is the only way

to live my best life,

to keep from running so fast

that I go right past myself?

Running by the small child inside

who seeks to fill herself with wonder,

passing up the chance for rest,

for play, to slow myself

long enough to notice

how pleasant the rain sounds

dripping onto the roof 

of the house next door,

tiny wet whispers tapping

those few remaining leaves 

clinging to the maple 

in my backyard,

an almost silent thrumming  

slowing down my weary soul.

The steady chime 

of church bells ringing

in the distance, in this moment, 

reminding me, I’ve already 

been given all that I need.

-Originally published in The Wonder of Small Things, edited by James Crews

Working in my garden, or rather
what could become a fruitful
plot of harvest next year,
I dig into the hard root-infested ground,
hitting rock after rock.

My spade clinks loudly.
As sweat swells, stinging my eyes,
I stoop to pick up something
sparkling in the sunlight.

Turning it over in my hand,
this seemingly insignificant stone
somehow feels like a part of me.
Lost in the midst of dirt and roots,
covered over by years of weeds,
pushed down deep into forgotten.

Persevering in the dirt,
I scan for the broken
you left behind,
when I was never the right kind
of your acceptable.

I put each one into my pocket
with trust
that love will gather them into
more than enough.

-Originally published in Birchsong: Poetry Centered in Vermont, vol. 2

I find myself jealous of those who rest
quarantined inside their homes, 
while I have to pack every last item I own
in order to carry it just a few blocks away.

And now as I reach around inside
this new house, I keep looking
for the things I know, certainties to hold
me up, cushion me on all sides.

How do I know that all will be well?

Because the morning sun still
warms my cheek, illuminating
small flecks of dust on my glasses
that look like layered circles of modern art.

Because the red squirrel still comes to raid
the feeders I hang, not intended for him
while the chickadee sings 
his same vibrant song.

Because the ferns in my garden
I feared had not survived the move 
are finally unfurling
their bright green bodies.

Because spring doesn’t know 
the anxiety of uncertainty,
but declares, through her gentle unwrapping
of the world, life will come again.

-Originally published in The Path to Kindness, edited by James Crews

When your poetry runs out, she said, let me know, and maybe 

you’ll have time to come work for me. I stood in shock 

at my friend’s suggestion, that these words might end, that I could return 

to my old life, waters dammed up inside, ready to burst.

Like I could somehow stop the wind as it blows  

down the shoreline, crashing wave after wave into soft sand 

pouring gently around my feet, now sinking down 

into the earth, as another rush of salty water pools around me.  

As if I could weaken Earth’s gravity, keep the cycle 

of the moon from bringing the ocean in and drawing it back 

out again, unwrite what has already been written,

going back to my past, as if I were still there.

Though at times it feels like I'm losing ground, walking 

carefully around piles of wet seaweed now baking in the heat, 

the wide line of tiny broken shells scraping the bottoms 

of my feet, as swooping gulls pick through bits

drying in the sun. Exposed and weary 

of this constant wind on my skin, thundering in 

my ears, the sun beating upon me--

I’m tempted to think this might not be worth it. 

But I see the water gaining ground, 

getting closer to this hard crusted sand 

where I’m standing; packed grains keep my feet 

from sinking, cracking around my shallow imprint.

The spray of the waves sweeps across my face, 

sea air leaving a salty film on my glasses.

The ocean slides up next to me, spilling over 

the tops of my feet, as once again I step

into the depths of the breaking

waves thundering through me.

-Originally published in Writing in a Woman's Voice

Tugging on my sleeve, she begs

for clothes as I look into her blurry face, 

grab my glasses and reluctantly roll out of bed. 

Dressing her with simple words,

greens and yellows rise up as she stretches

her new arms towards the sky. 

She jumps off the edge of my mind,

diving down inside, searching for my treasure.  

Finding a shimmering jewel, she pulls 

it out of the waters within,

swimming up to the surface.

Dripping wet, she's clutching 

a precious part of me to her chest, 

as she passes through my hands,

slipping out into the world.

-Originally published in Writing in a Woman's Voice

Summer draws them outside again tonight
while you and I lay our lankiness down,

your long legs pressing against mine,
as our children’s voices stream in

through the living room window.
We hardly dare to speak,

not wanting to break apart
these few minutes we are given.

Our breath slows its pace
as the laughter of our little ones

soothes our bodies. Releasing
thoughts of this week, we share

dreams for the coming ones.
The breeze brings in the sweet scent

of grass blending with the sounds
of their splashes, dancing

across our skin, loosening each muscle.
The closeness of our bodies, completed

by their chorus of play
as we exhale another day.

-Originally appeared in Healing the Divide, edited by James Crews

A letter arrives with his name on it,
a request to join the American Legion.
Honey, they want me to be a member,
to honor me for my Naval Service–
only twenty-five dollars, he asks.
An invitation addressed only to him,
twenty-five dollars to once again belong.

He cuts out the sample membership card,
forgetting there is any fee to pay,
like a small child pretending
to be grown up, he tucks it inside his wallet,
an anchor to keep him in this life
even as the ship of his mind
drifts on towards the next.

-Originally published in One Art Poetry Journal

My long branches lie here

smelling strongly, freshly cut.

My splintered inner self

like so many broken bones,

a tangle of yellow-green-brown

exposed in the afternoon sun.

An empty nest hidden 

in my branches, tumbled down

as I fell in thunderous thuds.

Never again to burst forth spring’s green 

nor provide respite in summer’s heat.

My reds, fallen for the last time

will never feel the warmth

of blanketed snow.

It wasn’t old age or decay

nor your own need of heat

but only for the sake of your

convenience did you steal,

breaking down my body

into tiny bits of timber.

-Originally published in The Wayfarer Magazine

Drawing in bright hues,

autumn leaves of illumination

become the air in my lungs.

I am learning to breathe 

in gusts of living color.

Inhaling vitality,

exhaling anguish, 

in and out,

receiving the rhythm 

of currents of color

moving within.

Dispelling dim dissolution,

I cast off shadows

to exchange this dark stain

for tinctured light.

Radiant colors collide

into each strung muscle

now becoming unstrung

as I breathe

in the flow of this

circulating iridescence.

-Originally published in The Wayfarer Magazine

You make me watch you,
turning your metallic
cartwheels in the sky,
your monstrous arms
spin through the air,
chopping up the mountain view
in whirling machinery.

They say we need you.
And I want to want you,
as you capture
the power of the wind
in your hands.

Yet I long for the earth
to be earth,
these mountains to
remain mountains,
and the birds who
lose their lives
in your man-made wings,
to fly again.

-Originally published in Third Wednesday