In Blue

A little chilly this morning so
I pulled my blue corduroy jacket on
and felt ensconced in a safe navy cocoon,
where I could hide my inadequacies
and walk with a purpose I don’t really have.

I always used up more of the blue crayons
before any others in the box as a little girl.
I think I’ve always had more skies
than people or places or things in my view.

My steps are actually little prayers,
every few strides a new one for someone
or for myself, interspersed with a few
of gratitude. Sometimes it’s a feeling
more than words in my head.

It’s lunchtime and it’s an empty expanse
with just a few trees and birds for company.
I have work to get back to soon but for now
I can sit in blue, with warm sun and cool air.


I listen to people chatter

and it seems important:

money, insurance, current events.

Sometimes, I realize I’ve only heard

about a third of what they’re saying

as I count how many steps it would take

to get to the river, how many flower petals

are in the meadow, how many stars

can I find to form the face of my love.

I think about star charts and maps

and how arbitrary it is where we land

versus where we plan on going.

I think about patterns of behavior,

abuse, as well as the way out,

how maybe I have numb places

that can’t be reached and how wonderful

it would be to find I’m wrong

with the right touch.

I think when people talk, it is mostly to

themselves and that’s a great way to learn

so I should try to be a better listener.

Remembrances on the pines

A few steps upwards,
the lake was very still and
rain had just passed, leaving
remembrances on the pines

nearby some rustling
leftover leaves from the fall
but no voices or movement
besides ours, a quiet thrill

greater than the sum
of spring rain and empty boats,
scanning acres of rock left behind
after a forgotten upheaval

long ago in a familiar pattern,
where lines cross and disappear
the way rain falls into flowers and hair
and small smiles, and they all grow.

Castanets, unglued

Today was room enough
to move and eat too many toffees,
waiting for the rush that never came
but instead pleasantly surprised
by a warmth creeping over me
and behind me pushing me into
a sunny afternoon, like a busker’s spring.

I think I’d be lost on Second Avenue
if let myself see all the things he wrote:
fire-eaters, acres of glass, marshmallows,
lips, and funeral homes, as well as things
I see: flags, men rushing redundantly, birds,
hands, and church spires on Second Street.

How we look is not exactly soul or sorrow
but tired with a bit of curiosity built in.
There is a smile echoed in words pressed
together like wet leaves, never to part.
I reluctantly greet spring, as maybe I am
allowed to bloom a little. If I can shimmy,
maybe the rest of me will come apart too.

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