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Archive for February, 2026

Illogic


 
 
deploying bombs
to achieve lasting peace—
like planting barbed wire
and expecting to grow
a rose bush

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One Garden


 
 
I am no longer surprised
when strange, exotic
blooms appear in my mind,
knowing now how seeds
arrive on the wind from everywhere.
Now, I am less likely to label
something weed simply because
I didn’t plant it myself.
At the same time, I want
to be discerning, knowing
whatever I choose to grow might
appear soon in the soil of you,
so I am cautious when sowing
bulbs of anger, saplings of judgment,
thorns of certainty.
I want us all to plant great beds
of unanswerable questions
and tend the mystery together.
How else might it change
what these hands do when I
trust every choice matters?

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!


for Mark Burrows
 
And there, in your letter, several doors,
all of them in the shape of an exclamation point,
all invitations to slip myself through
their dark slender lines and into
the realm of ecstasies—world of oh!
and wow! and yes! and love!—
into the sensory kingdom of blisses
that is always here, and yet somehow
I miss it, dulled as I am by the ellipses
of shoulds, the endless commas
that join me to the litany of frying pan,
dish soap, calendar, telephone,
toothbrush, postage stamp, pillow.
But oh! The wide spiraling of eagle this morning!
The deepening rose of the clouds at dawn!
My daughter asleep in her room!
Oud! Ginger! Dark crimson yarn!
Emptiness! Cool breeze! Your letter!
What joy this morning when I saw
all those tall, slim exclamation marks
and recognized them as the doors they are,
each one the chance to say yes! Yes!
to vibrating with elation! Yes! to the bright
bubbling champagne giddiness that rises inside
because wing! Because spring! Because sun!
Because pillow! Because toothbrush! Because breath!
Because orange! Because toes! Because you! 

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A Sign?


 
 
There, on my sleeve, a small white feather.
I don’t know that I believe in signs.
But the white feather that appears on my sleeve
while I think of saying goodbye to my girl
doesn’t mean nothing. It says to me,
pay attention. It says, slow down. It says,
you have learned how to love what isn’t here.  
I think of all the white feathers I started to see
after the death of my son. On the sidewalk.
In the air. On a mug. In a dream.
So I say to the feather, I see you. And I say
to the feather, thank you for reminding me
to notice the smallest of things. I say to the feather,
such a gift that you should appear here now.
And I say to my girl, I see you. And I say to my girl,
I love how good your hand feels in my hand. And I say
to my girl, such a gift you are here right now.

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The Trap


for Coleman Barks (April 23, 1937-Feb. 23, 2026)
 
 
It took me six months
to get Coleman Barks
to grant me permission
to use his translations of Rumi.
Six months of fretting.
Six months of worry.
Six months of feeling unworthy.
One day my friend asked
what was taking so long.
I told her, I hadn’t yet summoned
the courage to ask him.
In five minutes, she’d found me
his email. That night I wrote him.
The next day, he responded.
Of course. Please use them.
Fear is a trap. It uses self-doubt
as bait. But sometimes
generosity breaks the steel wire.
The trap never works as well again.
Years later, I remember his kindness
and the clarity of my friend.
How quickly joy can find legs.
Joy is the mouse that sees the trap
and knows there are better
places to find nourishment.
Joy is the mouse that sees the trap
and walks the other way.
 

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inside the prickly silence
a generous silence—
in the desert, a hidden spring

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for Paula
 
 
With one fingertip
I drew gentle spirals
on the smooth, bare
skin where only weeks
ago her hair had been
and her eyes fell closed
and her breathing slowed
and I felt her whole body
soften, felt how strong,
how brave she has had
to be for so long, so long.
How I loved her then
in that moment when
she let me see beneath
the smile, beneath
the shine, beneath
the laugh. How I loved
her then when she let
me in, how honest
her exhaustion,
how precious,
how rare,
her trust.

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The Rooms of the Heart


                  for Rachel
 
 
I thought my heart might need a makeover.
There are well worn paths from all the entrances
and exits. The color palette hasn’t changed
since the early seventies when the heart
was first decorated. And the four chambers,
sometimes feel a little tight. Shouldn’t I make it
a little nicer for guests? I spoke to the interior designer,
asked her to spiff it up for me. She smiled and said,
Sweetheart, there’s nothing more beautiful
than a well-loved heart. Its colors are always true.
You don’t need anything new or fancy. Every ding,
every scratch has made you who you are—
a home for love. Let it be.

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Tender Astronomy


                  with thanks to Jack Ridl
 
 
The day after she died,
Jack wrote to me.
Pick one star each night.
Name it Kyra.
Stare briefly toward it.
Say good, very good night.
His words became
a constellation,
a way to navigate the dark.
Sometimes, like now,
when I can’t see the stars,
I find one inside me.
Name it Kyra.
I say good, very good night.
Then I thank Jack.
For that moment,
everything is star.

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Trembling


 
 
Growing out of the earth
of my own detritus,
this new self, field self,
shedding and emerging,
equally alive with loss
and becoming.

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I’ve become the person who talks to avocados.
Oh, look how ripe you are!
The one who talks to dust bunnies under the bed.
Oh, my goodness. How long have you been there?
I’ve become the person who narrates wind as it gusts,
the one who composes out loud while writing poems.
In short, I’m the person who once mystified me.
Does she really think lettuce seeds can hear her?
And I love being this woman who converses with stars,
with shadows, this person who notices feelings that rise
as I move through a day and takes pleasure in greeting them.
Hello shame. I say. Hello fear. Hello embarrassment.
How much easier life is when I join in the big conversation.
Then I am never alone. Not that the bananas talk back.
Neither does the mop. But that doesn’t stop me
from being curious about my connection with all of it—
the stain on the dishtowel, the pond as it melts,
the broken pot, the robin in the yard, the highway trash.
It’s not the talking part I love, but letting my attention
touch everything. Cracked glass. A lost glove. Tire tracks.
Mostly, I love the listening for what isn’t said back.

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Vigil

In the growing dark we stood on the courthouse steps
with our candles lit and our voices soft and we sang,
Hold on, hold on, my dear ones, here comes the dawn.
And as we sang, someone read the names of those who died
in the custody of ICE or were killed by ICE. Tien Xuan Phan.
Isidro Perez. Johnny Noviello. Jesus Molina-Veya.
We sang
and in the crowd someone raised high a sign with the name
of each person handwritten in silver. Heber Sanchaz Dominguez.
Victor Manuel Diaz. Parady La.
With every silver name,
the notes stuck in my throat like coal, as if trapped there,
wedged with thick ache for each human, their families.
Luis Beltran Yanez-Cruz. Luis Gustavo Nune Cacéres.
Geraldo Lunas Campos.
And every note that stuck wrestled
itself free to vibrate in the air with all other voices far and near
who were singing, Hold on, hold on. Nenko Stanev Gantchev.
Delvin Francisco Rodrigeuz. Fouad Saeed Abdulkadir.

My dear ones. Here comes the dawn. And the names went on.
And the names went on. And we sang. And we sang. Because
singing brings us closer, creates warmth and communion
where there was none. Because the dawn has not come.
Because these were daughters and mothers and brothers
and sons. Renee Nicole Good. Alex Pretti. Keith Porter.
We sang. We sang because they are more than names.
We sang. Through our tears. All together. We sang.

*Lyric and music by Heidi Wilson. For sheet music and audio, visit Heidi’s Patreon site.

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When was the first time you knew
you would never be loved for who you are?
The first time you knew you would disappoint
everyone when you dared to show up
as yourself? I think of Camille Claudel
in her white frock, the lacy one she was forced
to wear. Her mother’s anger when
young Camille would return from the woods,
mud-joyously smudged, after a day
spent forming skeletons in clay.
A decade later Camille would be the one
Rodin depended on to sculpt the hands
and feet of his masterpieces. He would put
his own name on her work. Decry her talent.
Disparage her truth. Have you, too,
had your gifts turned to weapons used against you?
Have you, too, had someone else’s hands
re-mold the clay of your life into a story
you cannot bear? Could you, too, like Camille,
carve your most painful moment into hard marble
and offer it to the world to see, a moment so raw
people would gasp when they saw it,
even a hundred years later, and filled with ache
they would say, oh, my god, it is so beautiful.

**

Oh friends. There are so many unsung heroes in the world. And I am so glad that during Women’s History Month (yes, it still exists and is still relevant), my dear friend Kayleen Asbo and I are hosting a two-week series on relatively unknown, remarkably talented women artists with incredible stories. The first week we learn about Camille Claudel, the subject of my poem above, who was first worshipped by and then vilified by Auguste Rodin. The second week we learn of the wacky, resilient Suzanne Valadon who was muse to Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec, Erik Satie, and more, who forged her own artistic path, recreating the feminine from object to subject. It is STILL a radical act to celebrate the lives and contributions of women artists. Join us, please. Both weeks we’ll have six writing opportunities inspired by these women’s lives and their art. 

From Tragedy to Triumph: Writing with Great Women Artists
March 4 & 11, 11-1 mountain time
Zoom
$50/$80/$100
Join me and the incomparable cultural historian Kayleen Asbo for a two-week class in which we explore the lives of sculptress Camille Claudel (whom we briefly met in connection with Rodin) and the wildly unconventional and irrepressible Suzanne Valadon, who began her career as the favorite model of Renoir and Toulouse Lautrec and though self-taught, achieved remarkable success and renown in her own right as a painter. We will marry inspiring art with poetry and our shared creative writing practice. Join us!

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Each time the cat leaps up
onto the bed, she makes
a small bright sound.
I love this sound. Love knowing
that soon her warm weight
will curl into or on top of my belly.
It’s addictive as the chime
of an incoming text.
Seductive as short sleeves
and the firm curve of biceps.
My greatest achievement—
more prized than title or degree—
is when my cat finds me
worthy of being her resting place.
I soften then. Allow. I thrive.
Become creature. Become
purr-being. Trust-cushion.
A reverent stillness. I become
one who will still for love.

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Everywhere


 
 
Tenderness pierces the heart
the way a bright stream of sunlight
pierces evening clouds,
the way the green stem of garlic
pierces cold spring soil.
It pierces the heart the way protests
for justice pierce silence.
If anyone asks, where does it hurt,
the truest answer is everywhere.
If anyone asks, where can I find
beauty enough to make me weep,
the answer is the same.

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As wet loves the waves,
as dark loves night
as white loves snow
as a bell loves the strike
as a wing loves air,
as the shout loves the ear
as silence loves silence
let me love what is here.

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around my heart has come down.
Oh sure, I’ve rebuilt them with stones
of indifference. Stones of distraction.
Stones of unwillingness to see and be seen.
I’ve rebuilt the fortresses again. Again.
But then come flames of heartbreak.
Cannons of loss. The triple promises
of entropy, gravity and time. And at last,
too exhausted to lift the stones again,
I shiver with the cold wind of fear.
Sting from the sharp blades of betrayal.
But I feel, too, the gentle hand of another
as it holds my trembling hand.
Feel the body soften as I listen
to the music I could never make alone.
How present I can be when I no longer try
to rebuild the fortress. Present
enough to listen for the goodness
in the hearts of others. Present enough
to listen for the goodness in mine.

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And then one day, while I read
the news aloud to my husband
and felt the widening hole in my heart,
he raised his hand to quiet me.
I followed his gaze out the window
to see in the yard a small fluffy thing
with black and white eyespots on its head.
A northern pygmy owl beside our door,
stout body slightly smaller than my fist.
It turned its neck a full half circle
to look at me with bright yellow eyes.
In an instant,
I shifted from disgust with the world
to awe. Awe for this fierce, bespeckled
miracle, this wonder of feather, beak and claw,
this small being in the grass looking back
at me as if to say, Here is also the news.
How surprising the world can be.
How quickly, when I let it, amazement
overwrites my fear and makes
of the hole in my heart a home.

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There’s a place in my brain where hate won’t grow.
—Naomi Shihab Nye, “Jerusalem”
 
 
Sometimes a seed of compassion
slips into my brain and lands in a place
where before only anger could grow.
These seeds appear
when I stop seeing humans
as only our actions and start
seeing all of us as walking wounds.
They appear when I see others
finding ways to be generous, to be kind.
If I offer the seed the barest scrap
of attention, it begins to grow roots.
Then a stem. Then seed leaves.
More leaves. A bud. But what allows
for this growth is far beyond me—
rather some gift that comes through
when me and my story get out of the way.
This is how I sometimes come to find
a whole field of inner daisies thriving
in a place I once torched to the dirt.
At first, they needed my constant care.
Then they reseeded again. And again.
They spread into such unpredictable
places. Sometimes outside my inner world.
The same way the seeds arrived in me.
Through kindness. Through love.
It’s beautiful.


—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Dear friends, 

Today was day 120 of the monks walking from Texas to Washington DC to bring awareness to mindfulness and peace, compassion and connection. Today, after 2,300 miles, they arrived. What an amazing way to shine light on what is good inside all of us. How do we embody peace instead of arguing for it? What a question to live into. 

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Cast of Millions

There, on the dream marquis,
in big black all caps
were three words:
DEAR PEOPLE DARE.
I stood on the dream sidewalk
staring up into the vast
dream dark and thought,
someone made a movie
about tenderness—
real people finding courage
to offer love and care
to those who are wounded.
Which is all of us.
That’s when I woke,
determined to audition
for that show every day
for the rest of my life.

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