she unzipped the tent and stood,
outstretching her arms,
breathing in the morning

looking out at the expanse of the glassy, mirrored water,
at the billowing greens blanketing the mountainous terrain,
at the mist rising to greet the cerulean sky,
she felt almost frivolous

the sweet tang of wild bergamot skipped along the breeze,
but it was the smell of the lake water that enveloped her,
a rich, damp scent that settled into her clothes and her hair and stayed there,
stitched to her with muddy thread

here, she was wild,



the little things I don’t do,
and all the things I do not-quite-right,
paint furiously in mirrored hues,
in jerky, hobble-knuckled strokes,
with their overused, gnarled,
blasphemous fingers –
they refuse to stop

and I cannot bear to look

-art by Diego Voci


‘what happened to the forest?’, she asks,
and I tell her how I was never a sapling,
how the canopy was too dense for far too long,
that I now flourish in the splintering of old wood

but what I cannot tell her,
what my heart fractures to know,
is that I see some of my wicked splinters
were seedlings which now flourish in her

-image via Pixabay


I close my eyes,
breaths slow and regular as I listen to the sounds of life around me;
the hum of a boat engine gliding across the lake,
the sputt-putter of a jet ski‘s playful path,
waves crashing and lapping at the shore,
the low murmur of human chatter,
of belly laughter and the overflow of children’s giggling

I allow my mind to catch on to one or two of the intimations,
savoring them,
and then releasing them back to the great wide open

with each breath,
I spread my mind wider and wider around the abundance of life,
until I inhabit every space of it in my slow breathing

I am the low rustling in the treetops,
the splash-pushing of the gliding of the paddle,
the buzz-buzzing of the bumble bee hovering around the wildflower,
the vibration of electricity in each heavy footstep upon the grass around me,
the calming sway and then peaking of the water on the rocks,
the throat-pulse of every living thing

I breathe,
feeling the life inhale and exhale through me,
absorbing the familiar thread that connects it all


frightened, counting every moment between breaths
aching to share all the details, even the why
the river of words gone dry
expectations dying a thousand deaths

yet, resolve trudges on, pressing past the verge
proving they can’t be numbered, not yet
the precipice must be met
truth ready to emerge

no more thread to needle to skin
no need to stuff it in
no more charlatan smile
real, stay a while

-image via Pixabay