through my window

the intersection

of tree

and sky,

the lines 

they paint

across pale blue horizons 

while two black specks of bird chase each other.

***

Truth,

expanding over snow-dipped houses–

it will never be found beneath my pen.

***

the earth knows things my mind cannot see.

***

but I can still sit back,

exhale,

and soak in the view:

a single, conscious moment in the universe.

tumblr_nxewliCb0n1u489n5o1_1280.jpgFebruary 6, 2016

The Return

The

extraordinary

powers

of letting go,

magic

of feeling pen

on paper skin–

we are all

cut out dolls

made with razor sharp scissors

let me

let go

and make my art the way I want to.

 

I will whisper away

those sad navy blues

and caress them with specks of gold

found only at the bottom of the ocean–

a place

where all artists can drop their ink

and return

home.

 

December 4, 2015

I Write on a Blanket of Snow

Pen

finds its way back

to the paper

back to my truth

in the hopes that

“mine”

can still be

“ours”

in times like this–

white capped mountains

filling with the sound

of my shadow,

a lost soul

radiance

spilling out into sunlight

even the mountain missed,

talking with my sister

I know that the tradition

will pass on

the human way,

of knowing

the snow will melt,

flow,

and fall again,

just like the edge of my pen,

longing for love.

January 27, 2015