She reaches for relief

but finds an unopened book

which she can barely look at

for fear of being unworthy.

She fights gravity for a cup of tea

and sits curled up

feeling unwelcome as sun pushes fog

out to sea.

What’s a memory of a fern

or an echo of moss

to the roar in the ears

from a silent fury bursting?

I’m twelve in a glade all alone,

I’m nineteen in a park with a smoke,

I’m forty-nine wishing I was six

in the meadow with just the wind.

A forest bird sings of troubles

left by the fallen tree

and it’s a miracle

I can feel anything.

Questioning the Why of my days

with their varied meter and purpose,

I can only tell you what I think-

because I know so very little:

Mostly I know few things matter

in the end because in the end,

there’s either quiet or music,

patterns or darkness,

there will be healing or we’ll forget,

you’ll be there or you won’t,

stories will last until they don’t,

and there’s little I know now

that means more than what I knew at six.

I asked for a sign

but wouldn’t open my eyes

because the sound of backyard birds

felt like a caress.

It was like we were at the pond

and it was early in the evening.

There was plenty of time for ice cream.

Please don’t go yet.

It seems quiet below the water

but it’s hard to get comfortable

when I can’t feel the weight of things.

I’ve made several bridges,

mostly imaginary, to link the real

and the construct I seem to crave.

Sometimes we soar; often we fall.

Imagine dancing on rooftops

with no fear of what’s below!