as it is

in type of ribboned ink

I spell out my own words.

set 3 layers deep

in permanent ink

I am reminded

of the freedom when holding

no expectations

of particulars

of people

of permanence.

I have

wings open wide against strong wind

while others firmly plant roots

into sandy soil,

only to tip into the grains

face first.

and, yes, rise again

persisting in see-saw motion,

like the punching bag

knocked down and returning

for another beating.

but I was looking

for the way out.

breaking free this pounding cycle.

happy to scrape myself up,

yet, still, feeling as empty

as that inflatable punching bag.

the inevitable punch

is sure to strike



what if

supposing stops?

what if

labeling the next step ceases?

predicting what will be ends?

what if

I unclench the presumption

velcroed to each idea?

no longer bound to the beliefs

that tie us earthly.

what if I let go

of how it should be

and just take it

as it is?


Her hands

on days when I’m falling

weightlessly drifting

a meandering migrant

nothing steady to lean

nor sturdy feet to stand

I know

She cups Her supple hands

ready for the catch

for the weight of me

to cradle my threadbare heart

in that safety nest

for soft landing

readying me

until I can try

to fly again

sacred land

I stepped away

when desire began to fade.

Drained of the burn

that used to scorch me,

singeing my insides,

spurring my need to go,

to create wind

that fueled

the living fire inside.

When the spark fell silent,

with no amount of stirring air

rising flames from ashes,

I knew it was time to rest.

Allow the embers

to grow cold within their ebony coals.

In time, I drew heat from my heart,

a searing spirit so strong

it could ignite

icy cinders in the arctic.

I reached inward to the blaze,

found the flame,

and ignited kindling.

A new start to the pyre

rebuilt on my own

sacred land.