Maybe when your mother died young, you became instantly old.

Later our dreams begin catching fire around the edges, they burn like paper, we wake with our hands full of ash.

A poem is a cup of words open to the sky and wind in a bucket.

Being alive is a common road. It's what we notice makes us different.

Facts interest me less than the trailing smoke of stories.

like our parents always told us not to like firefighters warn against we're playing games and making the rules up as we go we're matching warmth to warmth starting fires burning wishes into our skin we're hidden holding forbidden lights we're children whose fathers have never taught never touch but we're finding these new flames we smother at the sound of footsteps.

I have always loved the gaps, the spaces between things, as much as the things. I love staring, pondering, mulling, puttering. I love the times when someone or something is late-there's that rich possibility of noticing more, in the meantimePoetry calls us to pause. There is so much we overlook, while the abundance around us continues to shimmer, on its own.