the blanket we loved has forgotten you, and perhaps, then, I should, too.
Mother, loving, smoothes my new, soft face’s skin. White threads do try to quietly caress This image of a heaven’s peaceful hymn, This tiny picture of sweet innocence. Croups and coughs caught within the quiet folds Fire and ice trace fingertips on my head, Covered by cords thankful they can’t catch colds. I gather them about, soaking…
I wash my hands of you and I. Scalding water scours scars where your fingernails once trailed. I wash my hands of you and I. Soap traces constellations of suds like your freckles. like your freckles. I wash my hands of you and I. Water revives, refreshes, redeems; nothing was untouched by you, it seems….
your love echoes like the light of a dying star; it goes on eternally, even after death.
I am a quest, Reaching out with departing hands, Lifting up, and Falling away. When God spoke me into briefness, Knitting quiet bone and shining feather, He seemed to know I would grow to be His heart’s final, glowing praise. I am a quest, Outlasting only the moment’s last memory Of whatever was just beautiful….
sunlight kisses the mountain. a scorched school bus sighs, “Finally.”
An extremely short verse that’s actually a metaphor for death and family.
A tribute to my friend, Scott, who passed away from cancer in 2013.
A little letter to my baby niece.
A poetic response to my sister’s teacher, who referred to girls as “scenery,” in her class.