the wind in the trees.
the warmth of a hand.
dogs asleep nearby.

the whole universe

whispering yes.

the door opened,

and my fierce little wolf pack
raced into the darkness,

using their ancient gifts

to protect
their half-awake,
creaky-voiced mama.

I didn’t mean
to steal the moment,

but it looked
so unattended,

left out in the open

as though inviting me
to whisk it away.

What might I do
with a moment
such as this?

The waters have slowed,
the storm has quieted.

Yet the fog remains.

My heart is adrift…

unmoored,

quiet.

I do not want a life
that ends
in the same shape
it began.

I want to grow antlers,

collect the blue
from ravens’ wings,

and make friends
with the fern
that grows sideways.

There are moments

when the simple act
of being alive

breathing,
seeing,
feeling

is so achingly beautiful

that it brings tears
to my eyes.

I have painted
even loss
as beauty.

I cannot dispute
its truth.

Yet beneath
every beautiful telling,

there is still
the place
where it hurts
to touch.

There are tears
that keep pooling
at the edge of my being,

defying gravity
in their quest
to belong.

In the days of my youth,
I imagined I would build my life,
achievement by achievement.

I would weigh and measure,
stacking them
brick by brick,
until I had built a life
I could stand upon
and shout to the world:

I have arrived.

Today, instead,

I kneel in the grass,
holding this wildflower bouquet
of ordinary days,

and whisper my gratitude
to the world

for allowing me
to become.