poetry

on planners and plans
So many friends’ children begin school this week, and as we fumble our way into our own year, I admit I’m a little sad to say good-bye to this care-free season of flushed cheeks and
camping, the gift of wilderness
“I love cooking in nature,” Liam tells me. He tosses the scrambled eggs around the pan gently with a fork. He’s carefully improvising the spatula I have forgotten. Nearby, two trees cradle Olive and her
spilled milk | sleep
We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.  ― Arthur O’Shaughnessy, Ode We snuggled up in my bed for an afternoon nap last week, a rare (and delightful) occurrence these days. With my eyes
a strawberry farm
Sometimes I need only to stand wherever I am to be blessed. ― Mary Oliver, Evidence: Poems Last week the days grew so warm that on one afternoon the kids even ran through the sprinkler in the
the earth’s poem
It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart. ― Rainer Maria Rilke Spring has arrived here, wrapping us with her warm, delicious breath, signaling new birth, disrupting our routines.
lately
. . . Sometimes I dream that everything in the world is here, in my room, in a great closet, named and orderly, and I am here too, in front of it, hardly able to
the art of Thanksgiving
I love this time of year. The leaves, finally changing colors, form day’s light each with unique and separate detail. “Look at me,” they chorus, and I do. For they, like the dancer on the
on love |the messy sort that endures all
Mark, I wonder if I’ll ever forget that moment. That phone call. That evening, sitting by the pool at my parent’s house, talking about American Beauty, interrupted. Life, interrupted. I had only spent days with
the gardener
          Even now I can feel him. Hands buried in my heart, reaching deep to upturn old, unwanted roots, roots long hidden from the light, fooling me of their power to grow