The truest poems wake the inhale in her center and coax her eyes wider and tilt her head back until her neck creaks, every muscle summoned, as her sigh becomes a note long held and known by angels. You are that poem, dear Twilight, dear Thunder. You are that poem, dear Illness, dear Friend. You are that poem, dear Nectar, dear Starlight. You are that poem, dear Bramble, dear Bloom. You are that poem, dear Question, dear River.

Everyone deserves a room with a view. I remember Anne Frank writing about the chestnut tree she could see from a window in the Secret Annex. She said something in her diary about how important it is to be able to go to nature to find God. I read her…

When I was a child, the ferris wheel seemed silly and scary at the same time. Who needs to go around in a vertical circle that ends up right where it started over and over again and also presupposes the likelihood of being at a standstill in a swinging metal…

The wizard hat disappeared into the giveaway pile last spring along with the witch’s cauldron and purple fairy lights. Who needs that paraphernalia where bats fly at dusk, the moon rises above the ridge, and a cemetery tops the hill. Heading toward the graveyard across the road at sunset had…

Thanks to Albert Einstein for using his brain. For opening to the fundamental properties that define being. For understanding mathematics in a way that I can’t even imagine, me who has to trust the results of his calculations with the kind of faith that let’s other people believe in heaven. …

A James Baldwin quote showed up on the @zenchangeangel IG feed this morning. “The children are always ours, every single one of them, all over the globe; and I am beginning to suspect that whoever is incapable of recognizing this may be incapable of morality.” Rev. angel Kyodo williams’ comment…

There is a wound in the world. Deep in the crook of civilization’s cradle, the experience of time was born and trembled at tomorrow. The immense mystery inspired stories of expulsion, sacrifice, eternal life. Was violence inbred from the first microbial mutation? Aggression the Achille’s heel of intelligent design? Is…

The Meeting Place. THIRTY. — i will listen to the still, small voice, the one that speaks when i am rumpled in a quilt, a quagmire of questions buffeting my dreams, the light of morning not yet golding the treetops, venus holding her scepter above dawn, servant to her potent charm. i will listen to…

The Meeting Place. TWENTY-NINE. — The edge Liv walked away from is the cliff she was told to climb to get to heaven. …