A field of flowers I have not yet met

There is a haven for me somewhere-
maybe it is a time or a person
or maybe I will be always be on edge
because the taboo things are too dear
and there is little enough to take seriously
in a world with platypuses and ice cream
and things like names for stars.

I wonder if it will always be an alone place
or if someone will come with me
to frolic amongst fields of flowers, sharing
stories with no titles or endings in sight.


Somehow months become
years and you realize
there’s no arriving, just more
traveling with more stuff to carry.

The trick is knowing what to keep
and what to shed when sunlight
and heartbreak share space
with daydreams and minutiae.

I have imagined us moving along
a path where wildflowers abound
and each moment is a new blessing
even when the blues drift by.

We tucked and rolled
whatever was bothering us
and tossed it out the window
on the highway going 75mph.


Morning at 50
is not unlike afternoon as a child,
a little tired and very hungry
from exertions imagined or real,
possibly an ache or two,
depending how brave we’re feeling.

The dawn air is heavy with a storm coming
and it’s quiet as I await my children,
just as I used to await my parents.
I don’t know why I’m awake so much.
I’m not that ambitious.
My dreams have always taken a lot
of my time and sleep is too passive,
so my body is often pushed by my mind
to do things in a disputed timeframe,
finding myself at odds with myself.
A woman and a child.

Wildflowers and Pocketknives

I’m sorry about the morning,
I started to type
but I had second thoughts (again)
about my reach across time and space
and what little control there is
aside from what shoes to wear
and which daydream to choose
to endure the struggle

A photo of tiny galoshes made me sad
because my children don’t need me
as much though they still curl up with me
and we laugh with more understanding now

Skirting the gaping chasm of aloneness
has become an unwelcome pastime
even when I am as still as I can be
as shadows chase my shifting boundaries

Missing a piece of myself
which may not have ever existed
except in books
then stumbling onto love is like
finding a match with a fern in the woods
only to be drawn into a storm with no shoes
while love is holding a canoe
offering a way home


It’s time, just time
that we can vouch for
passing us by
yet there’s more
than the sum
of our bruised parts
in the time we spend,
shamelessly borrowing
from poets and lovers
all the ways
we come together,
muddled and free,
safely… being.