Poetry — What do I want to say to you as you walk through your cloud of sorrow? That it’s not a cloud of your own making. That the ponderous smoke of it belongs to this world. That your heart feels the burn of wild timber and sky. That the deep well of your soul reflects the tender longing of humanity. No, I won’t…

Poetry — On the purple crest, I teeter among autumn sage and stone inhaling October’s arctic chill before descending into folds of land where smoke from summer’s blaze still sleeps. The gorge churns dense ash, filtering it through lucid blue currents. …

Poetry — I mourned you in silence. I grieved the loss of you with such elegant stealth you would have been impressed if it were a contest and you were alive. My palms didn’t even touch when I prayed. …

this wind pellucid and fierce stitching chaos in my mind

for Annick

I walk alongside the Columbia to be reminded of non-negotiable truths.

We step into the cool Colorado dusk, the day’s heat still packed in earth. Sunset tarries in tangerine swathes reflecting off stained glass at the apartment’s shining apex. It has become our nightly ritual– awaiting the first awakeners to rouse and bolt from the converted convent’s attic for their nocturnal insect hunt…

After Ola Gjeilo’s The Lake Isle —

I kneel at the petunias with palmfuls of water and because nature prizes reciprocity the purple velvet choir rains hosannas over me.