hems and notions. a poem.

i used a colored pencil to mark the seam 

against the same heel that 14 years before 

pressed against the inside 

of my belly and made me giggle with the hope of

what he will be.

I used a hot iron to stiffen the creases 

and a needle to press through the fabric 

tacking up the hem

tugging at my heart.

what’s a mama to do with the bittersweet seams

on one side, the world

on the other, emptying arms


Coffee house Jesus. A poem.

you’d think the sky was falling the way

folks talk 

that Nietzsche’s right 

and god is dead

but i tell you the truth

He is alive


In the coffee shop where I wrote all day and all around me for hours people met and sipped

soy lattes and I heard them


they were talking about Jesus 

and He was there 

in the friends who embraced and 

the pastor who encouraged the sad man

and the smile of the hostess fresh back from a mission trip to Nicaragua with the nose ring like mine who served me my egg and Siracha sandwich





there, downtown

and even the plumes of the Japanese lilacs lining the streets in front of falling down houses stretched toward Heaven 



just like the little patch of daisies outside 

my front door. 


“Again I resume the long
lesson: how small a thing
can be pleasing, how little
in this hard world it takes
to satisfy the mind 
and bring it to its rest.”
~Wendell Berry 

and you bloom. a poem for artists.

i am not unlike you, little

dandelion, your honest glow 

a weed, a nuisance 

to be rid of. and so, I get why

the sunshine of your tender face 


pale and the whole of your being


into fragile white, pieces falling, 

hoping to be caught

by the wind, an invisible 

river rolling pain away to 


a place far away where the soil understands 


better than the place where you first took root 

and there, you blossom.  

the field, wild, 

with flowers once weeds like you, bending,  


to the wind for carrying them 

to a place where at last they rest, 

their roots pushing in deep, understanding.

and you bloom.