Trust is a porcupine
sitting on the highway
in the middle of the night
not bothering to raise
even one of his
thirty-thousand quills,
choosing instead to look
right into the oncoming
traffic, the shine
of a direct gaze
more effective
communication
than any sharpness,
any barb.
Archive for April, 2026
When Times Are Dark
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged connection, eye contact, porcupine, self-protection on April 30, 2026| Leave a Comment »
May You Be Happy
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged blessing, fussy, happiness on April 29, 2026| 4 Comments »
When I cannot
offer you this most
simple blessing,
it’s because I’ve
forgotten
for this moment
who I am.
I remember now.
Child of sunrise.
Beloved of the rain.
Sibling of silence.
Lost one who rows
through oceans of stars.
Found one who
has been forgiven
when forgiveness
seemed impossible.
What I mean to say—
I am grouchy.
Still. I am trying.
What I mean to say—
cursing the drought
has never once
made it rain.
What I mean to say—
may you be happy.
How Things Change
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aspen, diversity, regeneration, softness, trees, worthiness on April 28, 2026| 7 Comments »
Most of the time, an aspen stand regenerates itself through cloning from its extensive underground connected root structure. But, sometimes, given very specific conditions, they can introduce genetic diversity through seed germination.
from Traveling Nature Journal, October 4, 2020
In the spirit of diversity
the aspen catkins
appear on the passes,
gathering low light
into acres of radiance
as they dangle
from bare limbs
in long clusters of gray fuzz
and all I want
for the rest of my life
is to be worthy of living
in a world with such
potent softness, such promise.
Seeing Through the Story
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged otter, perspective, story on April 27, 2026| 5 Comments »
What I wanted was to snuggle.
What I wanted was to greet
the morning wrapped in warmth.
What was here was coolness.
I spooled myself in a gloomy story wondering
what I’d done wrong to find myself alone.
Two days before, when I was radiant
with joy in a circle of friends,
I pulled an otter card from a deck
and felt wildly attuned with the otter’s spirit
of contentment and “unobstructed joy.”
The wisdom of otter says stop making
“silly excuses.” The wisdom of otter
says “celebrate.” It was only after
I rose from the bed and walked into
the damp chill of a misty spring morning—
the air alive with the song of chickadees,
the harsh calls of the jays, the rapid twittering
of the violet green swallows—
it was only then I felt the possibility of reverence
and celebration. And then, how silly I felt, somehow
seeing through the layer of story I added
to the morning, as if waking alone
was some kind of problem. How easy
it was then to celebrate walking alone
in the soft green of spring, my feet wet
in the grass, chill bumps on my arms.
Sweet woman, it’s okay you forgot
the chance for reverence was always here.
It is always the time for waking.
See now what was truly here this morning:
the room so quiet, the sheets so cool,
the soft gray light streaming in.
Maximum Strength
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged connection, duct tape, kindness, Moudi Sbeity, travel on April 26, 2026| 17 Comments »
for Moudi and Taylor
Starting the long drive home,
I do not turn on the radio
to hear news of the broken world.
My father taught me every broken thing,
from coolers to car doors to roofs,
could be fixed with silver duct tape,
at least for a while.
How big would the roll have to be,
America? On the seat beside me,
a green and white striped bag
is filled with hummus and cheesy crackers,
chocolates filled with coconut and pistachio,
oat protein bars, dried mango strips
plus a small baggie of pretzel twists,
a road-food care package my friends
prepared for me in the middle of the night
so it would be on the counter waiting for me
to find when I left their home at dawn.
Perhaps kindness is a kind of duct tape—
which is to say it doesn’t actually fix things,
but it does help us go on. What is broken
is still broken, but I can taste the adhesion
in the coffee they ground for me last night
so I could be awake for this morning’s drive—
hints of cinnamon, dark chocolate, toffee,
love. I feel how their kindness holds me together
this morning. How sticky it is, the message
they wrote for me in sand: you are loved.
The message will fade, but as the world
goes on breaking, I feel surrounded
by their kindness all the way home.
When I Feel I Do Not Belong
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged belonging, parts of self on April 26, 2026| 4 Comments »
When I feel I do not belong in the world,
when I walk past raspberry brambles
and my attention somehow fails to be snagged
by their clever thorns and the warm,
woody scent of their leaves,
when I curse the wind instead of turning
toward it, arms flung wide as if to fly,
in those moments there’s no poem, no prayer,
no book, no speech beautiful or fierce enough
to remind me I belong to all.
How is it so convincing, that numbness,
that doubt I could ever be worthy?
And how is it this late April morning
I tremble at the smallest beauty,
astonished by the elegant reach
of slender bamboo, the leggy twining
of wild honey suckle, the thready,
rhythmic peeps of the chicks
in my stepdaughter’s yard, the whine
of her dog as she watches the chicks.
In this moment, I can almost not believe
I could ever feel separate from the world,
though I know such moments are true.
So I wrap my arms around that lonely version
of myself, and marvel how the part of me
who believes I could never belong,
that part belongs here, too.
Waking to Twenty-Two Degrees on April 24
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, frost, spring on April 25, 2026| 8 Comments »
I don’t want to curse the frost
that settles into the morning,
even as it continues to kill
every blossoming thing.
Nor do I want to be numb.
I want to feel the loss
of the lilac buds that will not
fill the spring with dark purple sweetness,
want to feel the loss of the apple blossoms
that tomorrow will be wilted and brown.
It does no good to shout blame at the sky.
More than once, I have tried.
I want to practice weaving the ache
into a day also filled with singing.
The stakes only get higher.
The frost will come again.
I want to love what is here.
I left the ocean
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ocean, time on April 23, 2026| 13 Comments »
but the ocean followed me
to the mountains, bringing
its vastness to the day.
Sometimes it takes me a whole hour
to swim to the other side of a minute.
When I arrive, somehow dry,
at my desk in my chair,
there is salt on my skin, currents
in my breath, scent of brine
still tangled in my hair.
Letter to an Unnamed Star
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged becoming, gravity, patience, star, wish on April 22, 2026| 8 Comments »
How could you prepare yourself
for the pressure of the wishes?
How to prepare for the burden
when any given person on earth
might choose, at last, out of desperation
most likely, to look up and notice you shining
in the great vast dark and pin on you
their greatest hope grown like a weed
from the seeds of their greatest fear?
You, formed from a cloud unimaginably cold,
were never prepared to receive such longing,
such ache, such stubborn, relentless faith.
The fact we can see you at all means
you survived a battle in which gravity
wins. What do you have to teach us
of wishes? Perhaps the wisdom of falling
in on ourselves, faster and faster;
how we must give away enormous energy
in order to stabilize our core. You model
how we must give ourselves to a process
of becoming. Are you fighting for it?
I imagine you might ask, as you, too,
battle against pressure and what’s happening
in the field beyond your control.
Have you learned yet to power yourself?
you might ask as you spontaneously fuse
hydrogen atoms to form helium. And somewhere
in the midst of the forty million years
of becoming a star, you might ask of us wishers,
Have you learned yet anything of patience,
how much brightness it can bring?
Not Too Late?
Posted in Uncategorized on April 21, 2026| 3 Comments »
She wants to dance.
To know her body as urgent verb.
To dance. Here. In this room. Any room.
To dance while her legs still bend and leap.
To dance while her arms still lift. Dance
while she still has wrists to twist. While
she still has neck and ribs and hips.
What is she afraid of?
She was never a very good dancer.
But has she not been laughed at before?
And what is the cost if she doesn’t whirl and wheel
through Tuesday, through noon, through now?
And what if she bows right now to herself,
offers herself her own open hand,
then rises and leaps and spins through the room
saying yes, I thought you’d never ask.