Writing By Heart

I only have one photo of you
you are sitting in my house in Boulder, CO
mid-sentence, your hands lifted like birds
a small nest of fire burning in each palm.

Poets of the 2025 Harvest Workshop

Today at the library, I met the insect lady.

I sit on the big rock
to admire my clean tribe
of dainties with a smile
on my face, and I think,
now this is my kind
of prayer flag.

I wish you the cool clean whiteness of shells,
the sacredness of bones,
the memory of flight that leaves its signature in the feather.

Language was a song she sang
while she rode her bike
up and down the hill
a melody tattooed its signature
across her shoulders

Did you know it takes one bee’s entire life to make a single drop of honey?

The wind blows through the child’s hair and each tendril turns into a striped snake that sings in its own language.

Ghosts whisper as the door creaks closed and the red moon rises and the long snake stretches her back as you ride her curves, learning your own center.

In the forge of my will, I melt myself down. In the white hot heat of hurt, the last embers of survival roll over in surrender.