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the shimmering stars, once so high,
then flung so violently from the sky.
buried for many years beneath
the sands of sorrow,
now unearthed—rebirthed
for a new tomorrow.

The Wind

Some people hate the wind.
After all, it messes up the best laid plans.
The wind doesn’t discriminate.
Whether you’re a flimsy umbrella, a well-coifed hairdo, or a grand ol’ oak,
It treats you just the same.

Some people hate the wind.
I probably should too.
I have enough trouble walking on my own
Without tripping, falling, or going askew.

And don’t get me started on my nest of unruly locks,
Which goes from zero to frizzball in…
How long does it take for the wind to pick up?

But, as it turns out, wind is one of my favorite things.
I can’t see it, but I can feel it as close as my skin
When I close my eyes, open my arms, and let it in.


One moment you’re here–
And all the promises you hold seem secure.
And then…
Wisps of smoke disintegrating into the anonymous night sky.
You’ve made me into both the peddler of fanciful tales
And the one willing to sell the shirt off her back to believe them.
But this not a tale of woe,
For as much as I fight and claw
To hold you for a moment longer,
Before I know it you’re gone–
And all the promises you hold with you.
And I’m standing here naked.
I’ve been here before.
I want to break down and cry,
But instead I hold still and wait.
In another moment I open my eyes
And am bathed in moonlight–
And all of the promises it holds are secure.

Chasing Cars

As a child born in the mid-80s, I have seen the proliferation of all kinds of technology over the course of the past 2+ decades. I’ve witnessed the transformation of huge, boxy computer monitors into iPad Airs and cassette tapes into CDs (and laserdiscs?) and now mp3s. Yet I’m not old enough to say that I lived before the time of cars. To be able to get from one place to another in a short amount of time, on a whim, is something I took for granted.

Lately, since I moved into the downtown area of my small town, I’ve been doing a lot more walking and realizing that it usually takes longer than I think to get from one place to the next. My sense of time and distance has been warped by years of living in a culture of instant gratification, and even two years into living away from the hustle and bustle of urban life, I can still feel its effects.

I imagine it as a person on fast forward being pulled back and beginning to move in “slow motion” as everything around her continues on fast forward.

What of this secret space?
What of the beauty she finds
In the cracks and crevices of life?
Of the language of infinite love
That surrounds and covers,
Offering hope
When all else fails.