I support all people on earth who have bodies like and unlike my body.

Where we live in the world is never one place. Our hearts, those dogged mirrors, keep flashing us moons before we are ready for them.

Poetry calls us to pause. There is so much we overlook, while the abundance around us continues to shimmer, on its own.

I Still Have Everything You Gave Me It is dusty on the edges. It is slightly rotten. I guard it without thinking. I focus on it once a year when I shake it out in the wind. I do not ache. I would not trade.

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

Getting over what you did to me is not why I get out of bed anymore.

I'm writing mostly to thank you for living you eighty years and to tell you I love you and think of you often.