Category Archives: Poetry & Prose


What would this peach say
if it had breath
to share its bumps
and soft spots
as I bite it’s
ripened by the days
it’s taken to get
here to my
hand from the
hand that plucked
it from a tree;
the hand
that holds another
hand, smooths
a forehead and tucks
a chin beneath
flaxen sheets and
a thin, worn coverlet;
the hands
that pray each night
for enough
hours to work,
sun to warm
the earth, enough
rain to fill
the dryness, to grow
this small offering
which I now


We said things like

forever and always

under star studded darkness.

That was before

winter. It was before

the black bear began to lope

towards hibernation, slipping

into a deep slumber

out of necessity for warmth, knowing

the days would once

again lengthen. I

am watching them shorten

like she did. I

am taking inspiration from the bees,

keeping my mind on my work,

hoping that if I

notice this honey, you’ll

return when she does. You’ll

wake up and come looking

for what we began before

the frost occurred, before

the crimson leaves fell, before

the heavy rains, when our love

was something to be savored. But

the seasons have already

passed and even the shoots that push

through the dark

soil are not the ones from before.

So I ask –

will you let go

and let yourself too be reborn?  

Have you ever noticed the way a bird falls?

I saw a boy pick up one
of the rocks
by the edge of the creek,
(You know the ones)
smooth and sharp,
good for skipping,
dark and heavier
than you’d think for
such a small,
packed piece of dirt.
He looked up and
saw the red and
wanted it
for his own,
wanted to hold it
in his hands,
cradling it the way
he held the stone.
Squinting, he aimed
and missed.
He hit the brown thrush
resting on her nest,
protecting her own
white stones,
the possibility of
flight inside fragile porcelain.
He did not know
how much an apple


In July, I went to work with refugees who were currently staying in a camp on the island of Lesvos, Greece. We spent a week training volunteers around compassion fatigue as well as counseling those in the camp, both teaching coping skills as well as processing seemingly only a little of the trauma they had experienced. After returning, this image has remained in my memory.

“Bebe, those sleepy seeds are still in your eyes.”

He has been


It is all he can do

after waking up in this

place on the dusty

hill, barbed wire fenced in safe

and yet still stuck

in this holding cell, this


room, for a future he knows so little of.

They huddled in, chilled, as they crossed

with nothing but a few clothes stuffed

between legs, their raft slowly rocking

through that birthing canal,

hoping to make it alive across

the icy waves below. Yes,

he wakes here now,


day after day, to leave this

place. Dreaming

is all he can do;

these tiny seeds of hope

keep him alive.

Meditation on Autumn and Change

Can you hear it?
The leaves are whispering of freedom.
You have to wake early.
You have to slip out of your house unnoticed
and go to the woods.
Leave your shoes at the edge,
For this is holy ground.
A few of them are breathing, showing their amber edges,
Their hearts exposed to the raw reality of change.
Walk slowly. They are just beginning to stir,
And, if you allow your feet to take root,
Your toes sinking into the red clay,
Pushing into sweet, dark solitude,
You may find that you, yourself, already know the words
And are humming along.