a special place

Shimmering green,

with ducks and geese,

the pond is a mirror

with a dirty face.

I see the trees,

a pulsating painting

under my feet,

quietly rippling.

I see the blue sky

and its puffy white clouds,

through a wobbly mirror,

a wandering crowd.

I sit and wait

and watch children skip stones.

How many centuries

has this been done?

You are more than a painting

because you can move.

You are more than a film

because I can feel you.

You are nothing less

than a kind of embrace,

a spot to sit,

a special place.

flowering trees

 to the flowering trees

coloring my street

before you can be sure 

of spring,

you do not wait

until you know it is safe

to open your hearts 

to the world.

you do not know

of the approaching snow,

but smile in the sun

like a child.

you teach me

life is beautiful,

no matter how long

it lasts.

you teach me

to start living,

and stop checking

the weather app.

drifting

 drifting snowflake,

calm and quiet.

can i talk to you?

the trees are white

and weighted down,

content to wear

their winter gown.

to sleep with no

warm lullaby.

to rest beneath

a colorless sky.

drifting snowflake,

cold and distant.

do you hear my prayer?

the trees reach down

to touch my face,

content to share

this peaceful place.

the snow lands soft

on my brown hair.

where i land,

i do not care.

skating lessons

Her skates glide over the ice,

leaving shavings, carving trails.

The air is cold on her face,

which wears a quiet, focused smile.

She is not graceful yet,

catching her balance before she falls.

No twirls or jumps- in spite of that,

she savors the applause-

of air rushing past her face

as she presses, fast, ahead-

of her skates on the cold ice,

their long laces poorly tied.

Faint memories of Michigan.

Is this the girl she should have been?

A perfect wintry wonderland-

she slips and tries again to stand.

Beneath her, time is frozen,

but she must not be still.

It's not too late to learn-

to find that fearless, frozen girl.

missionary kid

Her heart's a hopeful airport

a thousand strangers scurry through.

She checks their bags and sends them

on their way to somewhere new.

Her mind's a busy airport,

so they try to travel light.

Extra baggage is expensive

and they'd rather skip the line.

Her soul's a lonely airport,

missed connections to reroute,

for every person who comes in

is on their way back out.

morning

I step into the warm, misty morning,

and the air twirls my hair in its fingers.

I kiss you goodbye, and you hold me

like a big bunch of flowers.

Last night's rain clings to my skin,

but the sweet sunlight grips my heart tighter.

I'm learning to listen,

to let myself be loved and be lighter.

candlelight

I turn meat in a pan

and watch the sides brown.

I light a candle

and sit down.

I observe my abode

and think tender thoughts, 

wooden spoons, welcome homes,

winter boots, metal pots.

I cut up some carrots

and make up the bed,

set the table for two,

picture you in my head.

Calm, content

to watch and wait,

to feel the warm glow

of candlelight.