Poems
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I used to be afraid of color. Afraid that if I dressed to bright, or wore my makeup to bold that everyone would see the person hiding behind the mask of curated neutrality.
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I am a woman- not just a womb. I can create with my love, but also create with my hands. I can build, and grow, and shape, and make; I am prolific as the Earth. I am a woman- not just a potential mother. I have a heart full of love. And I do love
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The storm covered much of the country- a last cry of clinging winter. Snow lighted on half-bloomed buds and winds shook the branches of the cherry tree until soft petals and snowflakes danced together toward the ground.
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It’s not about the stupid tattoo. Just like it wasn’t about the party he skipped, or the ranch he never took me to, or the Valentines date he let his best friend crash. It isn’t about the birthday left uncelebrated, or the coffee dates I arranged, or the parties I planned, hosted and cleaned up
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I had a dream last night. A terror, a nightmare, vision, or just a dream. A dream about him, about me, about us, and about her- She is always a subcurrent in such dreams. In my dream, we were standing face-to-face. For the first time in 4 years, we were together. Even in my dreams
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We would be eating pie right now. That’s the kind of couple we were. Snipping like grandparents, teasing like kids. Sharing and stealing our slices in turn. That old Village Inn, with its peeling paint and faded sign, Has been replaced by a pizza joint. But that’s what memories do- Change. Four years ago we
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books on the sofa, my bed, strewn across the kitchen table, and stacked on the window’s ledge. Pages turned and marked haphazardly with bookmarks, paper scraps, folded book covers, and even pens. Left open like a half-finished thought- read at varying paces. Just one is never enough. half-read books stored in many places.
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How can something so cold be less like unyielding ice? Soft and fragile as a fairy wing, graceful and light in its dance. More air than water, less wet than dry, champagne snow falls in mountain skies.
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Creeping into the backyard from over the garden wall. Her big orange belly is as round as her tip-toeing paws. Orange swirls like cinnamon on her pumpkin rolls. Asking for pets as she stops by on her daily stroll.
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The well ran dry. Where life once overflowed, only a clanging echo remained. Still, the hopeful still came with their pails. They patiently lowered their empty vessels, into the dark below. For they believed that which is empty can be refilled again.
Bringing Mae Flowers 