Dear Copyeditor,

Dear Copyeditor,

I am writing you
this poem
the way a gazelle
must grow ever sleeker
and quicker
to escape
the indelicate jaws
of the lion.

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Another

Another

Crow in a birch tree
shakes rain from its wings…

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The Choice Between Freedom and Love

The Choice Between Freedom and Love

How much do I allow my life to be governed by my decisions about how the world and how people “ought to be,” and how I “ought to behave”? How open am I to making real choices, on a daily basis, facing up to the potential within every single moment to integrate love and free will, and to respond to the diversity and interconnection of an ever-shifting and always surprising reality? This is what I thought about as I walked in the woods this morning.

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With All My Heart

With All My Heart

That’s how sick we all are of this bullshit nonsense. You’re sick of it, too, I know. You’re sick of the internet outrage machine. You’re sick of controversy and condemnation. You reshare links to things you hate just to tell people you hate them, and somewhere inside, you hate yourself for doing it, because you know it’s useless. You’re sick of the noise and the fury, signifying nothing. You’re sick of a society that asks you to hold onto everything so tightly, with so much certainty and righteous indignation, that your fingers are curled into fists and you can’t remember the last time you gently traced the scars on another person’s skin as if they were something beautiful.

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Further Reflections on Death & Fire

Further Reflections on Death & Fire

I’m usually somewhat solemn around this time of year, sitting quietly at my desk listening to the quiet rain and even quieter fog outside my window, enjoying the damp quiet day in my own little way as my not-at-all-damp-thank-you cat quietly looks on….

But not this year. This year, something’s gotten into me. A bit of trickster spirit, maybe. A bit of fire. Since March, which is when Sir Terry Pratchett died, a part of me has become really, really angry. Another part of me can’t stop praying.

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