Montana

Absaroka Mountains, Paradise Valley, Montana. May 2025.

On Wednesdays

And sometimes, on Wednesdays, 
you feel altogether less than.
Less than creative. Less than
bright; less than enough. Still
there is this desire to burst some

seal in the universe to say what
you feel. And you determine
to send the man you love a letter
because you are also reminded
by your intro to writing classes

how powerful our interactions, 
entanglements with the natural
world really are. Reliving our
gorgeous weekend in Montana.
Wide skies, iridescent light. The river,

carving out its channel, hosting
bobbing rafts of geese, the
swift water constantly breathing,
caressing, quick-tickling its banks.
Feet, pinked, cold and smoothed

by silt and stones. The mule ears
sunshining in bunches on the
low slope of each sky-grazing
mountain range– Absaroka, Crazy, 
Gallatin, Tobacco Root– still white-

tipped with winter, now green-
black with pines, avalanche lines
and juicy jade undergrowth
all silently worshiping Spring,
new whorls of love made daily

Yellowstone River, Paradise Valley, Montana. May 2025.

Deluge

Spring, you may wander through my
soul in infinite spectacles of rebirth,
interrobangs of golden mule ears
apostrophes of purple monkshood,
little ellipsis of mountain service berries
punctuating each hillside and long
top-frothing grasses, mountain oceans
in growing breezes, a cloudy sky meant
to cast angles and halos, one
moment warm and the next a
whipping rain, a deluge,
steady then soft, pelting then gauze,
a corporeal mist clinging to river beds,
mountain roots and renewal

Peets Hill, Bozeman, Montana. May 2025.

Skin
shedding
morphing, learning,
lose, grow, shift, change
a year for becoming strong and centered
snake

Peets Hill, Bozeman, Montana. May 2025.


Blindness
absolute blindness
creates false hope, fists clenched and
clinging old, wet sand

Sight
when the grief subsides
the soul is filled with blinding
joy, internal sight

See
did you want to drive
your military complex
around on the street

Absaroka Range, Paradise Valley, Montana.




Mare

“Astronomy for the use of schools and academies.” Joseph A. Gillett (1882)

Oceanus Procellarum

His eyes the hue of all Earth’s oceans tossed
In tumult (spume, spray) churn infinitely
Her heart, the oceans of the moon, ensconced
In basalt magma mares laid anciently
He senses love and feels it coursing through
Her ever-present depth, the seat of grief
Conditions both are now accustomed to
By life’s relentless quest to find relief
Yet, love and laughter fill their atmosphere
A world where they alone can live and be
It saves them from an epoch of disaster–
A home, a space, a place—this you and me
New woven in this moment learning how
Their love gives import to the here and now

Sunset over Utah Lake. (February 2025)

Sea of Scorpio

Darling, I haven’t yet told you
How beautiful your eyes are
Like the ocean’s depth, a sea
Moved by primordial currents, dark,
Yes, below the surface, but there
Beautiful, almost infinitesimal
Flecks of ochre, golden troves,
In the rippling rich blue that
Remind me of the entire universe
Contained in that chasm, which
Is to say soul, kelp ribbons
Amber stones, acorn barnacles,
Brittle stars brought to surface by
Maelstrom. Sign that all the
Depths you’ve fathomed where
You learned through excruciating
Joy and wracking gladness, an
Abyss rife with life and pain,
Eternal you, there laid bare
Inside your beautiful eyes

Sunrise over Timpanogos. (February 2025)

Mare

Oceans
Lakes
Basalt Planes
Pulled
Constantly
Moon’s
Gravity
Attraction

Heavenly
Bodies
Flow
Churn
Forever in
Blue and
Green
Earth

Ancient
Mare
Haunt
Remembering
Seas
Exist in
Every
Universe

Moonset. Full moon. (February 2025).

October

Snake Creek with a Rainbow. Image, my own.

Beautiful Boy

In my line of work,
I get to see things
And hear things
That many people do not,
Will not, see and hear
Personal narrative: a genre
Used to tell one’s story
To put your truth into
The World, tell your
Life to the Universe
Of all living things
To say, to see,
To be seen
To listen
These are very tender
Moments—actions, braveries
Moves—today a young man
Quietly said to his classmates
Boys want to be Beautiful
Too, boys want to be
Given flowers and trust
And the opportunity,
To be Vulnerable
Boys want to
Be seen and soft
And before you scoff
Please know that to put
Eyes on this young man
He was “normal”
Which doesn’t exit
But he wasn’t some standout
He wasn’t crying to be
Noticed in a needy, cloying
Way he was sincere
Brown eyes shining
And serious, he said again,
Boys want to break down
Boys want to be treasured
And saved, and tendered
Boys are complex and
Layered, multi-faceted
And so easily shattered
So easily loved
Beautiful boy

Lacrosse. Image, my own.

Melt:
for the hottest October on record

things melt like banana
popsicles on hot sidewalks

hearts at the cuddle of
a tender puppy’s nuzzle

sun as it sherberts into sunset,
dreamy scoops of carnelian, fuchsia, crimson

water being sublimated into
sediment, becoming sludgy mud

metal silver when heated to one thou-
sand seven hundred and sixty-three degrees

falsity as you live in truth in the world
as it is, not as you wish it to be

light refracted and gloriously dispersed
through water into the entire color spectrum

butter bubbling, sizzling in the fry
pan in anticipation of the next repast

bodies into one another, warm
with the savior-vivre of desire

Aspen in October. Image, my own.

Sitting in Cars with Moms

Listening to music with abandon, shake it
Hearing a favorite podcast in a vacuum, rapt
Slumping over the steering wheel, emergency
Crying, tears pouring down cheeks, salty
Praying as if there is no tomorrow, apocalypse
Laughing raucously with a friend on the line
Changing the ka-billgionth diaper on the seat
Resting the eyes at the thought of dinner, cook
Wanting for a touch a hug a support, embrace
Kicking back the seat for a true nap, snooze
Reading a book while a child is at music lessons
Waiting for babies in the carpool line, patient
Scanning a prescription before returning to sickness
Sipping a drink in silence while ruminating,
Pondering the existential crises of humankind
Yodeling to an Oktoberfest hit, hot 100
Brushing back the hair, mustering a smile, love

Rabbit Brush. Image, my own.

Hope Feathered in Me Today

Rose like an owl in the dark
of night. Off on an important
measure. A simple key into what is
Take no more than you give.

On this day we celebrate
The now— the moment— what is
As it is what we have to celebrate
Looking into the moon-face of our children

Listening to their dreams. Holding
a lover after a frozen lamp-lit tramp
Into the pitch-dark night
Drawing lines across a page,

A stone, a landscape to remember
Each leaf outlined, sepia veins,
Each intricate brace of existence a
Falling into one another– hope

Barn and Timpanogos. Image, my own.

Saturday Dreams

A Saturday trio of sweet poems. I hope you have a deliciously lovely day. XX, Megan

—–

What is this place?

This gorgeous sunny
Saturday of possibility
This stillness of warmth
This cradle of rest
I think I’ll stay

—–

First Day

It feels like the
first day

of the rest
of my life

As near-autumn sun
warms my face

The cat licks her soft
tummy and dainty

paws clean near
my thigh

warm, brown sugar
coffee steams in

my hand. The soft
beat of the night

falls aways and I
can revel in the new day

cricket noise dwindles and chirps,
finch, sparrow, flicker

songbirds are chittering from
the branches of an old

cottonwood, the sun soaks
into every port

the first day unfolds
before me

—–

“Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.” Ursula K. LeGuinn

Grew Some This Season

As the crepey pumpkin leaves
turn into tiny shards of
brown paper in my hand

I am reminded of the circle
of all things, the beauty and reality
of dust

The empty brown cocoons of the peas,
just husks of the tender
green life-casings they once were

From leaf to vine, now
is the harvest time
the time of gathering in

And this year my garden
blossomed, bloomed, produced
and grew in abundance

Bounty and the bearing of the
fruit remind me that I
too have grown

I am rich with new understandings
new scars, too, yes,
but a seeing, a stillness

A silence that hasn’t possessed
me for a long, long time
in its renewal– peace