Leaving Treasure



I seat an egg cockleshell
miles from it’s home,
where waves of grass abound
instead of water.

I deposit it lightly
where branch once protracted
from trunk rooted deeply underground.

“It’s a treasure,”
I whisper to my darling sister tree.
“Hold it safe for seeker to find.”

And I’ll return someday,
in hope to behold idle womb
as I confer a new wonder to tarry.


Now and Me



I am that dancer
whose hips were too large
with legs much too short, but now,
with age much too long, I dance anyway,
in rain, no umbrella needed.

I am that actor
who wasn’t a star but lived
to step in shoes and speak new words
from another’s view, and I do, now,
in my own shoes to read my words aloud
for no one else to hear,
no applause, thank you.

I am that writer
without a degree, without training
to make my words matter, but now
they do, if just to me.

I am that artist
of bleary shapes,
where nothing looked as it should
in all the wrong colors, except now,
with my honest companion,
iPhone with camera protected in lilac,
we transcribe through lens and eye,
a pleasure just for me.

He said let them play
and in their play they will find
their good, their passion, their asset,
nothing that shakes the world,
but a design of compassion
and empathy, beauty
and laughter, presence,
the only way to be,
the only one now me.



Author’s Note:

I’m learning to play.




I love the wind

It fills me up and
gives me strength

This night is different

There is no rain
Yet trees thrash
knocking windows
scraping the side of the house
A pathetic call
as if I am to rescue it
Bring it inside for a cup of tea
to settle its nerves

Or maybe a warning
Don’t wander too far
lest I be carried away
A rag doll knocked around
loosely cradled in wind’s
wide arm, a howling way
to go, lifted unmercifully
to unkown place
Left in a heap, crumpled
from the journey
Scarred and bruised
Only a faint whistle
to remember my place

I love the wind
but not tonight





She woke to snow. Trees bending low to ground. Naive leaves encrusted with rain frozen into flurry’s handiwork. This would not do. There would be no journey, journey dreamed in hibernation. Her spring pilgrimage of buds unfolding, crow paired, and callow sprouts pushing up through roused earth halted, hooded in drift’s deep sleep. Winter sought one more tarriance. She endured knowing the fledgling interval’s warm breath would sigh again. Soon…

Snow drips from tree limb.
Azure unfolds from behind
grey veil, green booms.



Author’s Note:

I love the haibun form introduced during NaPoWriMo this year.

The above was sketched out during our “All School Write” this past week when everyone put done what they were doing and wrote for a period. Kindergarteners to the office staff put pencils to paper, pens to journal, fingers to keys and wrote about something that happened to them.