Not red
but rubies and cherries
and a third glass of wine
and rogue lipstick with
lots of kissing on
a Saturday night.

Not yellow
but liquid sunshine
rolling around in my belly
making me shoot
sun flowers from my toes
and stream daffodil joy
from my mouth.

Not green
but the way you feel
when you see the first
emerald buds of spring
or touch a snow tipped bow of pine
or let your verdant heart break
over how-
like magic-
life always finds a way
to grow in this world.

Not gray
but great gasps of grief
that give you the guts
to let it out when life
has mistaken your heart
for a paper mache piniata
and swung it’s stick at you.

Not blue
but sky and calm
and clean and clear
and rolling in the ocean
in a sapphire sea of lucidity
while the whales sing
serene and laugh on.

Not purple
but lilac breezes
and periwinkle musings
and afternoons beneath
the mulberry tree
staring up at the sky
with lavender dreams.

Not pink
but the nose on
a newborn kitten
and roses on Tuesdays
and everything that is
soft and good and love.

Because why else
are we here if not
to revel in the color
that is Life-
so we can better
learn about love.



The fireweed reaches
high towards the sky,
trying to touch the sun
for one last kiss
of summer.

The lilac bushes wave
on an amethyst breeze,
coming back round
to bid the season adieu.

And Olive with her
dancing green eyes
breathed a final goodbye,
as Mom with her broken body
and fullness of heart
sat by her side,
singing her peaceful
songs of hallelujah.

It looked like
the frail leading the frail.
But it was really just
love leading love,
because it is often
those who seem most
fragile in this world,
that are most able
to stand strong
with love for others.

The trees turn in
soft golds of symphony,
rustling change
on the leaves.

The sun is kind
with morning light,
reassuring the day
will carry on.

And I seek
the company of
the constant sky,
where I try to unknot
the complicated strings
that are family,
loss and grief,
as I wonder why
is it usually the
daughters of this world
who carry the burden
of sweeping up after
the ashes of others.

How is it they
have not discovered
one of life’s most
beautiful secrets-
Our softness
is what makes
us strong.

The moon phases
in her cyclical song,
the darkness always
chased by the light.

The geese gently
gather in flocks of
feathered Vs,
soon to head south.

And even in their
departure they whisper
a prayer of spring
and the promise
life will always return.

I watch them
take flight as I think
of those dancing green eyes,
and offer my eulogy
to the grace of this world.

May you be loved.
May you be well.
May you be peaceful
and at ease.

May I be loved.
May I be well.
May I be peaceful
and at ease.

May we be loved.
May we be well.
May we be peaceful
and at ease.

There is such
poignant beauty
when sorrow comes,
because joy once
filled that space.

A full moon
is rising.

My heart
remembers love.

And the fireweed
waves on.


let it flow

You can’t stop
the tide from turning
or undo
the goodbyes
Life has brought
your way.

Or keep a season
of grief at bay
when it’s demanding
to be felt.

Remember that
every loss
comes with awakening
that shows us
how deeply
one can feel.

Do not try
and keep
your heart
from reminding you
what it is
to be human.

Just let it flow
and know
your heart rains
because it has

the spill

There are these
sacred spaces
inside of us-
doorways that
take us to
the secrets of
the deeper self,
who knows
a thing
or two
about why
we are here

But we will
never find them,
if we don’t
take the time
to feel
and break
and let our hearts
spill over
onto the contents
of this world

Some people
spend a lifetime
trying to keep
the spill
from taking place-
never realizing
the ingredients
needed for
abundant life,
can only be found
through such
beautiful mess