My default compulsion is to check the
computer for any sense of connection and
seeing what the distant world is finding
joyful and noteworthy
But today I broke free and strapped on 
my boots, choosing to march solemnly toward
a forgotten love and the garden welcomed
me wholeheartedly as I pulled and gnawed
at the surface, massaging her tired muscles,
digging to remove the knotted masses of clay
and old roots and filling her anew with
lost plants wedged under lilies and 
tucked in hidden corners
Breathe, Garden! Breathe, me!
Welcome Sun and Rain and Birdsong to
keep company with this garden. And for now,
I stay here to find my community in Soil
and Weed and Insect and tweet about my work
completed, happy with heuchera joy
and pinks pleasure and hydrangea happiness

The squirrel chatters above my head
littering my papers with his house-
cleaning debris while the bird, whose
name I don't know (let's face it, 
I only know about 5) talks and 
talks to some unseen or otherwise mute
neighbour or maybe he's talking to 
himself
and slowly
oh so slowly
the angry words and rehearsed
confrontations I play over in my
mind momentarily become quieter,
like that far-away dog's barking or
the dishes clattering in that house
over there and things get quiet
enough for me, finally, to hear
the Breath of my breath

"You say you cannot 
Prison beauty in a word,
Ephemeral things are sacred
So you say. You are afraid
Of moulds; yet no one else
Can say it better.
Why not make moulds
Of lovely words
And pour the moment in?" - Doris Hedges

Love it. Love when I have no words, there are some out there waiting to be found. 

I stay on the path
the safe, the known
the beautiful
tree branches drape and droop
to cathedral the footprints
their interlaced fingers
catching all the rising words
sifting and sorting and recreating
Scrabble-game of prayer

A prostitute enslaved in the States
A 9 year old Ethiopian cut by her grandma
A toddler with club feet
A sex-slave of Cambodia
4 stories in 4 days
Replacing the numbers with names
And already I feel my grip slipping and loosing
Unable to hold their stories and honour
Their pain by remembering with them
Nicole, Nkatha, Prinscio and Sarah
Rehearse those names, Connie
Press repeat again
When complacency rises to engulf
And self-centredness screams like a kid in a high chair
Repeat the names
Remember their story which is their life
​Those four

The maple in my yard
shed its summer garb
worn-out clothes dropped on the spot
tossed to the ground
how lacking in self-consciousness
to hold nude arms and trunk
skyward inviting snow and hail
to stand bare before all the northern elements
and shout, "I am ready!"
and I gather the wet, rotting leaves
their weight jarring me awake
to how much I carry that is
worthless and cumbersome
needing to be raked off and taken
away