May we all be Monarch butterflies,our orange wings lifting us from our cocoons, fluttering in the morning breeze from leaf to leaf,soaring when the sun is high,sweeping through sunbeams late afternoons,devouring what nourishes us,the milkweed leaves behind us nowuntil it’s time to find that distant placewhere we begin and end.May your wings sing in harmony with your heartbeats--your voice like no others, your melody sweet...

I’m getting older because I haven’t died and wiser because I seldom worry or shake my head at foolishness. I walk much slower now because my legs are stiff and know it makes no sense to hurry. Getting older like the trees I share this land with and the hills where the sun rises to glisten on the water lets me look around and see with sadder gladder eyes-- still blue like the sky but cloudy too-- and so I squint to see the...

What if everything I did was wrong—blunder after blunder—who I married, how I raised my children, what I chose to do instead of something else,what I could have said but didn’t?What if I always missed the pointand thought I understoodand went this way instead of that,following what I thought was right—my passion, my dreams, my sweatsweeping me along as if guided by a star?What if thinking I was wise and finding I was fool...

If I followed dawn, I’d rise in my slow climb high above the sycamores, high above the clouds, the hills and valleys, the mountains, lakes and gleaming rivers rushing to the sea. I’d follow the blue day high above the groans of the dying, the screams of lovers, the cries of babies, the horns and sirens of crowded cities where smoke and soot soil the houses and tall buildings. And following the day towards dusk, past the m...

Emily Janson was devastated when she got the call that Jonathan, the man she was to marry in two weeks, was just killed in a motorcycle accident. Holding the phone to her ear, her breath leaving her, she stood still, unable to speak, unable to comprehend the words she heard. The call came from Jonathan’s mother, who had just been called by the police.“Oh no,” she gasped before the sobs broke loose and tears filled her eye...

We never hear of her when we read how Noah gathered all God’s creatures— large and small and led them two by two into his Ark before the flood. We hear about his sons and how they worked to help him gather in the beasts and birds, the snakes and bugs and sail beneath dark clouds and blowing rain those forty days and nights until the dove returned with a leaf and soon they found dry land. We know he was a righteous man, bl...

Making soup is alchemy—a brew made from the elementswhere fire, earth, air and water mingle to concoct a potionthat if seasoned well can hypnotize the senseswith its taste and nourishment.The mysteries of soup cannot be taughtby passing down a recipe of measurements.It’s more than slicing onions to be sizzledwith cut carrots, celery, green peppersthen sautéed until their essence bleedsand shines translucent from the heat....

Yesterday, I read about a bomb that killed a family in Afghanistan twelve hours ago-- four children, their parents and another man, a friend, perhaps, or a grand-parent who, just before their house exploded, was eating soup, talking, maybe laughing. In the photograph neighbors standing in the rubble raise their fists, a woman holds her weeping face. In Darfur I read about the raping of the women in a village by invading s...

Sitting here this morning with my second cup of coffee, looking at the empty chair across from me, wondering what I’d say if suddenly John Keats was there or Whitman with his broad rimmed hat or Shakespeare (would I call him Will?) and so somehow in the world behind my eyes when I looked up there was Keats across from me, his elbows on the table, looking at the painting on the wall and glancing at the fire in my stove-- a...

How should I pose before I paint with wordsmy portrait? Should I take my glasses offso that my adjectives can capture the youthfulblue and twinkle I am told is there--althoughwithout them I can’t read a word or see without a squint across the room?Or, should I keep them on--wire-rimmed and scholarly as if I’m wisefrom all the history I’ve studied?Should I smile with subtle lips like Mona Lisaas if amused by what I’m doing...

Again, I close my eyesand wait for you, Dear Muse,never knowing if you will comeand enter me today,and if you do, I have no notionwhat you will bring.I glance out at the eastern sky,at the orange glow then close my eyes againand sit here in my darkness,waiting with delicious coffee-- the warmbrown brew I cravelike I crave you.I take that first warm sip-- the sound of “ahhhh” risingfrom my throat-- a sound so pure and fill...

This table by the window where I writeand eat and watch the birds and squirrelsand pile my notebooks on and search the internet and sit with friendswho stop by for a chat and tea,its surface, once worn and stained,I sanded and refinished the other day, revived its youthful look, brought back its maple color, the one it hadwhen I found it in a secondhand storeso many years ago sitting in a corner with old lamps and think o...

This table by the window where I writeand eat and watch the birds and squirrelsand pile my notebooks on and search the internet and sit with friendswho stop by for a chat and tea,its surface, once worn and stained,I sanded and refinished the other day, revived its youthful look, brought back its maple color, the one it hadwhen I found it in a secondhand storeso many years ago sitting in a corner with old lamps and think o...

Note: For several years I woke up at 4 am and wrote a new poem each dawn never knowing what would come. I’ve collected the best of them in a book called Morning Songs and now will share some of them with those who are interested.Each dawn I sit here waiting for the lightthat leads me from the dark so I can writethese words, these psalms, these songs of praise, of pain,of mystery and look up at the sun and rainand know the...

THE VICTIMS (written at the beginning of the Iraq War) The bombs we drop fall on all of us. The houses that are rubble are my neighbors’ houses and now we live with them in rubble. The boy who lost his arm, the girl who lost her legs, the old man who was shot while walking to the store, the violinist who lost his fingers, the painter who lost her sight. All their blood is our blood. When we invade, we are invaded. The gun...