Space

Westwood Hills Park Loop; Napa, CA. Image, my own. April 2026.

Jazz

jazz, how something
jazz
something so messy
so seemingly unkempt and
chaotic brings
jazz
something so messy
so unkempt and chaotic, disordered blooms
jazz
so unkempt and chaotic
brings subtle peace
jazz
brings calm clarity
to the mind
to the being
jazz

Napa Valley, CA. Image, my own. April 2026.

Lonely Place (II)

I’m still alone in my anxiety, in the pit of the stomach of the thing

Why does it take humans constant living to remind them that they
are alone and together all at the same time?

being alone
being lonely
being human

are they the same thing?

Am I still sitting at the table by myself?
Or is that just my childhood imagination talking?

What does it mean to be truly intimate with someone, in that you
you can call and text and still be alone

you can have sex and still be alone, still remain disconnected

you can be married to someone and still be walled out or wall

Maybe I’ve built too strong and well against vulnerability

The horns at sunset. Westwood Hills Park Loop; Napa, CA. Image, my own. April 2026.

Noted:
I noticed the quiet
omission of those three words
when you said goodbye

Eventide. Napa, CA. Image, my own. April 2026.

Space

What does it mean to need space, to take up space, to be in space
If we look at all of the bodies surrounding us, antithetical to room,
In definitions of space we might see blackness, bed covers, a field,
Yogic bodies in goddess pose, scientists from my planet on a vessel,
Artemis, a vehicle, the goddess of the hunt, she blasted them up into
The heavens, the dreams of generations of humans went with her
Astronauts in first grade classes from the sixties until that the final
Countdown from the Kennedy Space Center in twenty twenty-six
Imagined that moment, enraptured by the darkness, a new pitch and
Moment of aloneness, closeness to mortality like very few have lived
Our utter contrast, a bluegreenwhiteorb, pure pith and circumstance
Twelve months, our orbital timeline around the sun, twelve moons, of
Waxing and wanning, newing and fulling, shifting and pulling oceans
It’s hard to know what will come of this push and pull in the end

Wyeth grasses. Westwood Hills Park. Napa, CA. Image, my own. April 2026.

Angle

Little Rock Canyon Trail. Image, my own. 2026

Billie Holiday and a Constancy of Dishes

growing into what goodly work feels like, allowing

Billie Holiday to meet a Sunday afternoon, a moment to rest

sultry trumpet lines and mellow tenor sax vibratos curl

around the soft razz of her story, falling in sensual serenades from

her lips, tragedy, truth, the fact that things fall apart, and fall

together again all in one song, one heart, one lifetime

a slow, delicious meal simmering on the stove to be

shared with my dearest, a quick sear to seal in flavor

so as I wash these dishes, may I remember Brother Lawrence

1666 Carmelite monk whose work became to wash the

dishes– pots, pans, spoons, bowls– whose devotion

to paying mind and body to the menial task became

a meditation, a prayer, a conversation, an act of deep adoration

to the point of nourishing Brother Lawrence in joy

joy at the least of these, the insignificant existence of humans,

recorded as the stuff of worshipers, acolytes, viewers, and tourists

over the ages who watched Brother Lawrence wash, in soverignty,

dishes

every dish evidence that life was given, bread was broken, food and

tidying up became an act of physical communion

Little Rock Canyon. Image, my own. 2026

Dance

sometimes I’ve climbed back into the dress
I wore when we danced together for the last time

we inhabited two separate bodies, two separate lives, we danced with
all of our experiences swirling inside of us, there is seemingly nothing

that could save us from the next part of the dance. undone, again, I am
sad, it’s a different sadness, not the raw, aching fire of the first separation

not the low moaning tears of the days the boys had to leave to be with you
it’s a sadness more of recognition, of assent, nodding ‘yes’ to what was

and accepting what is, and allowing myself to still feel sad that I didn’t
know, could never have known, it would be our last dance

Utah Lake. Image, my own. 2026

A Certain Slant of Light

the clouds rise in great crescendos
thunderheads of nimbostratus, portent
like that mahler record of resurrection
nestled in the thrift store vinyl section
life and death and redemption
those rays of light we all see
which break through the somber
sky, a promise,
who knows the rules, who keeps them
when it comes to poetry, lightning
mercury, fate, spirit, a palantir

Iris, goddess of rainbows. Image, my own. 2026

Harvest

Timpanogos, Autumn 2025. Image, my own.

Autumn Pi

Rain on desert ears has the
Nostalgic ring of ancient
Canyons, striae revealed

In layers of eras, reality
Visible over eons where
Water knew its way.

Maybe we’ll wake
Tomorrow, the hot sun
Returned to its high autumn

Zenith, symptom of the
Sickness humans have
Inflicted on everything

Natural around them–
Trees, air, water, animals
Earth’s great oceans all

Poisoned with plastic,
Suffocated, hexed in
Chemicals, save us

From ourselves, our
Hubris and our short-
Sighted nature

Perhaps it is only the
Infinite that keeps me
Sane these days, makes

Me whole, returns me
To my place between
Stars and atomic particles

Sun-burnished sandstone and
Outer space, reminding me
With all our furious machinations

Good and ill, humans have never
Found a round number for Pi,
The circumference of the universe

“My Business is Circumference” Emily Dickinson

Season changing clouds, October 2025. Image, my own.

Plastic

Driving into the ever-early sunset,
East, city streets, wet from rain

moments ago, just passed,
In the waning light

Street lamps begin to wink on
A turkey vulture rides a thermal

High above the traffic light, black, 
Feathery, flighty, I’m surprised

To see such a bird here,
Metropoli, humanity, all scrummed

Together in ever-growing towers
Towns, I look away from the bird

To the arrowed light, dictating a
Turn, the bird takes another

Breeze, it’s moving on to
Other climes, no, there is

No bird. The black specter,
An airborne plastic bag

Autumn in the Wasatch Mountains, 2025. Image, my own.

Paper

A fearless paper
Advocate, let decay the very
Lines I hold so dear

Autumn in the Wasatch Mountains, 2025. Image, my own.

Weave

Hoar Frost. December 2024. Image, my own.

Chancel

And now I bow
In the nave
I built with my
Own hands
A force of will
Maybe, and of
Hope, and strength
And love, and
Power, and good
Ness and weak
Ness and sacrifice
And longing and
Grief and beginning
I kneel before this
Altar to my dreams
Before I burn
It down, before
The doing and
Undoing pulse
Through my being
And there it is
Again, my knowing
In the unknowing
That this temple
This altar this
Divine expression
Must ignite, must
Burn, must be made
Into ash, and thereby
Made into everything
That comes after–
The garden, the
Synagogue, the holiest
Holy, of all the sacred
Spaces, filled with the
Breath, the Fire of the
Divine Universe intoned
In your throat, in your
Heart, in your center
Melted to make
Way for something New

Wintery walk. Image, my own.

Gift

Sometimes the memories
And myths that were woven
Into your childhood become
Magic again to your arcing
Soul. The songs that break
Forth in trumpets. The
Prayers that end in good
Tidings. The trees all
Dressed in snow and stars
Light against long December
Nights which beg gathering
And joy-filled repasts

Aspen and snow. Image, my own.

Roads Taken

Two roads diverged in a snowy wood
And knowingly, quiet and somber I stood,
looking out on the starry, moonlit way
then took the path that had already been trod

With careful foot-fall through the hoary frost,
after the ribbon of travelers who’d crossed
the fork in the road, the decision place
And rather than test the dark and the cold

I took the chance to walk along
where others had gone, and bend my care
instead to perceiving the moment, the present
The here, the now, the trees and the fences

I shall be telling this in an age
from maiden, to matron, to crone, to sage,
I took the road that many had paved
And made it my journey, anyway

Fern Frost. Photograph: Skip Via, West Valley Naturalists.

Braid

dark and light
strands of fermion
behavior spin
good
evil
if they
exist
tethered
whole
to the same
fate maybe
driving Dirac’s
trick
as truth
every particle
we are made of
even distantly
is woven, connected
to the cosmological
horizon, all tangled up,
simultaneously unspun
strand by strand into
infinity

Half Moon. Image, my own.

Evolve

Scrub Oak in Transition, September 2024. Image, my own.

Autumn Equinox

there is this balance,
this even-keeled consciousness,
an equanimity of the breath
in the air this time of year,
the night and the day coming
into equilibrium, living and dying
reflected in the vegetation,
the need for both action and
rest, moving and pause, all
things in their time and space

Rubber Rabbitbrush, September 2024. Image, my own.

Evolve
-for the elders who’ve shone
a light along the way

I’ve been watching the course
of Life more closely as
I’ve neared ‘halfway’

I’m totally clear, I may die tomorrow
of a fungal infection brought
on by an errant hang nail

This year, I started to see
and understand some parts
about this journey called life,

Facets that had never been
open to me before,
that had never been revealed

In youth. I began to witness
the power of personal
human evolution.

I’m sure I’ve seen it displayed
previously, but now, it seemed
closer, more raw and real

The strength, the peace,
the solidarity, and grounding
that some humans

Offer themselves and others
when they choose to live
with their arms stretched

Up to the divine, when
they’re moving forward in
purpose while trusting the

Siren song of the universe
to guide them to good ends,
and over hard roads, too, don’t

Mistake. I don’t think that
living this evolution is simple
in any way. To allow the

Lessons that life has offered
you to be inculcated into
your core, this isn’t a flat

Path, rather peaks and valleys, I see
my mother who pursues her
passions like watercolor and arts

Grant writing without
prompting or celebration,
and steadily understands

what she loves, what she
holds dear and then lifts
up those elements of her

Life, tending to her own
garden of desire, she invests
her best self in her and us.

All I’m saying is that for a
very long time I felt completely
perplexed with the recipe of this

thing I was witnessing–
evolution– my septuagenarian
friends, were practicing this

Art of living with purpose, too,
with love and with a fair dose
of spicy ironic interjection

Swimming every day,
hiking all over the hills
and valleys of our home

They were another of my
sign-posts. And my uncle,
who spoke the eulogy at

My aunt’s celebration of
life, a woman who also
lived and gave her life over to joy,

He has also chosen
to live in the miracle of the
era of man, to let life

Be the ocean, the teacher, and
he became the student,
he’s allowed those learnings

To become part of him
in the way he loves his
children, the way he acts

In community, the way he carries
the knowing that life will always be
a question, a universal

Query that we can only answer
by living more truly, more soundly,
more surely in verity

To that Flame that was lit within
us at our birth, the miracle of
existence realized, we evolve

Lights. September 2024. Image, my own.

On Being

be who you are and
who you can be,
and meet those two
verities inside yourself
with loving kindness
and compassion and
let it be enough to
experience the joy
of living as you see fit
as you love yourself

Andrew Wyeth Grasses, September, 2024. Image, my own.

Steady in the Fall

the sun and moon
move into equilibrium
waxing crescent to quarter

peloton of geese ride high in
the wide blue sky, calling
and answering back, headed south

flowers still bloom, delicate violet
saturated yellow, vibrant magenta,
as grass fades, sepia to umber

fully bronze dragon fly the size of
a silver dollar flickers past in the sun
chased by a saxe blue fly the same size

grasshoppers bunch on mustard rabbitbrush
in the sway of breeze next to dark-chocolate
velvet cattails, stalks steeped in pond-water

cooper’s hawk cries from the brush
high and free like an alter ego
finding the next rodent in the undergrowth

the air takes on the rush and pulse
of crisp wind as the sun’s rays angle
longer, cooling field, flower, and fly

Paul Klee, Night Flowers.