what a terrible
thing to be placed
way up high
on a pedestal

to balance precariously
on the cusp of
projected ideal

may I take my
dirt and grit,
sinking deep roots
into the raw earth,
so my beautifully flawed
limbs can better reach
the clean, wide sky

and never become
a propped up imitation of self,
in service to illusion

for I fear I would
not survive the fall
from such great heights



not where I was
not where I’d like to be
but somewhere in between

where how are you
becomes an exercise
in complication,
and I start to realize
in choosing to trade
the illusion of certitude
for an agreement of growth,
I have unwittingly invited
this ambiguous stranger
into my tectonic space

not there, not where, but here
life right now,
somewhere in between



The longer I sit with them
the more I learn that
discomfort and discontent
are not companions to be
carelessly shooed away,
though uneasy their
presence may be.

But instead are wise friends
here to bring transitional
tidings and accompany us
on a passage of change,
so we can become more
than what we currently are.

The trouble is their company
makes us feel odd,
out of sorts and ill fitted,
so we tend to see them
as dark, when all the while
they are trying to crack
us wider so we have
room to let new light in.



It turns out nothing
is as I thought it’d be,
but I’m learning to
find joy in what’s
simple anyway

a curvy cloud on
a palette of blue

purple petunias
and a playful pup
messed with dirt

a glass of wine,
some cheese and
the company of an
old tattered friend

beneath an eve crisp
with seasoned change
and light with good
when we take the
time to notice