Hundreds of hushed secrets
Shake, dance, quiver, rustle
Caught between several soft
Staccato drumbeats and a single
Brook of water washing a cavern
Of shining, slippery stones
Wind whispering with your leaves
Is my favorite lullaby.


Will I ever forget
Shoveling manure
Into grandma’s garden
Tying parallel strings
Scooping out soil in
Careful, straight lines

Mother placed an envelope
Containing corn kernels
In small skeptical hands
That hovered over soil
While worries blurred
Through my brain
Eyes stared in disbelief
At shriveled seeds and soil
Agonizing as gentle fingers
Pushed improbable purple triads
One point five inches underground
Too deep to feel sun?
Will shallow waters
Wash them away?
What about distance
From the ditch?
Can seedlings grow
Upside down or
How long before
They discover my
I faked nonchalant
Indifference to mask
My fears as
Each day passed
And I noted my new
Born row
Until at last
Joy burst through
Soil in
Bright green leaves


It’s a Gas

Enveloping Earth
Entering, exiting 
Every living being

Tree, termite
Moss, mudskipper
Each of us inhaling
One another’s other’s air
Connecting like an
Invisible tonic,
Try, but you 
Cannot forget
For more than 
A couple minutes
We need one another
Like we need to breathe

Sweet Dreams

I kiss the girls as they drift away 
Behind closed eyelids
Little foreheads smell different in sleep
Like thunderstorms in a desert forested with creosote and sagebrush
And ozone from a lightening strike and asphalt connecting with fat raindrops
Jane sits up suddenly, muttering indistinguishable sleep-talk
Then cries out her sister’s name and reaches out to grasp only air
I wonder where they go in their sleep
As I hold Jane and gently remind her she is dreaming
Her mumbled explanation trails off as she wakes a little more
Then frowns
As if the thought of being wrong is distasteful
As if she would rather still be dreaming
Now I too drift into my own quiet
Where the pitter patter of desert rain falls behind my eyelids
Where dust and grime leave in small rivulets
Where small plants stretch tiny roots to soak up whatever they can
Where I dream of being the kind of person who deserves to live in a world
Where children’s faces smell like raindrops falling from the heavens.

Parrot Garden

Playing with sounds
They repeatedly hear
Squawking them back
To your own ears
Like children

I hear them
Playing now
“I will be the Mama,
You can be 
The sweetheart.”

If only 
All my sounds
Reflected as favorably.



“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”

― Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass

Nothing says winter like the night sky
Full moon encircled by something like a rainbow
Only colder and more distant
Stars pop out, extra crisp and clear
Skis slide up
To the tops of Elk Mountains
Where one can almost feel
Earth’s long exhale
As she lets go of vitality
For a season
Snow does not love the trees
Nor kiss them gently
Tis no white talking quilt
Here, at least
On top of this mountain
Snow is indifferent
Like a cat
Or the illusive lover
Who will never
Offer warmth
No matter how many
Fantasies you have
That may persuade you otherwise
Evidently, those crystals
Have no concerns
About carrying away
Our heat
Leaving us with nothing
But the ability to let it go
Perhaps that is the allure
Of snow