A woman once described a friend of hers as being such a keen listener that even the trees leaned toward her, as if they were speaking their innermost secrets into her listening ears. Over the years I’ve envisioned that woman’s silence, a hearing full and open enough that the world told her its stories. The green leaves turned toward her, whispering tales of soft breezes and the murmurs of leaf against leaf.

There is a geography of the human spirit, common to all peoples.

The crocodile doesn't harm the bird that cleans his teeth for him. He eats the others but not that one.

We are full of bread and gas, getting fat on the outside while inside we grow thin

Telling about our lives is important for those who come after as, for those who will see our experience as part of their own historical struggle.

Between earth and earth's atmosphere, the amount of water remains constant; there is never a drop more, never a drop less. This is a story of circular infinity, of a planet birthing itself.

Poetry is a string of words that parades without a permit.