does your heart


call my name?


in the way mine has sung yours


in showers of sadness,

clouds of confusion,

and winds of wander?

it is

only in quiet

can I escape.

drift as dry leaves

down an autumn lane.


one with with crumble and the crispness

there in the bluster and the breathless

forever in the wait and the wayfare.

in that still of body and mind,

I find my center again.

my soul’s song remembered

singing my own lyrics,

but your name

is always in the chorus.

gusts of wings

if I knew this future,

cast into crystal ball,

headdress in place as I gaze in

seeing this life I live now –

I would choose

to press my bare feet

in the footprints

I set in wet sand

so many months ago.

knowing I would arrive

at the same water’s edge

looking out into


unknown waters,

of potential.


where will I drift?

what shore will call me?

where does my compass point?

what does my heart’s scope spy

off in the distance?


I only know

I am not captain, my captain.

instead first mate

tasked with raising and lowering my sails.

it is the wind that will blow

and take me with it.

when the butterflies gather

gusts stir with every

flap of their wings

and I sail.

swept away

silence spares us 

sweeps with sorghum broom 

before words brandished by hurt 

fly into the face of another 

lays them under the cut pile rug for wait 

under the wraps of reticence 

we protect others and ourselves 

as regret of wielded weapon words 

pins us to the wall 

with the aftermath of eruption 

gathering the dirt and soot 

until the dust bin 

can lean in collection 

and we can see more clearly 

what should be spoken and 

what should be swept to the wind


things to match things

things to add on to things

things to clean things

things to replace old things

things to hold our things

things to record things

things to show we have many things

things to keep track of all our things


I get so tired of things

cluttering up our lives

cluttering up our hearts

when in nature

there are no things

just life







without things