Do not cling to clouds,
but rather notice the billowing outlines.
Notice the shades of opal-like white
morphing into hues of heather gray
or charcoal, misty smoke.
See the blue behind the sky’s pillows
and know that this promise exists for you, too.
 
When the snow melts to rivulets 
on the sidewalk,
and the earth thaws 
to a softening green bed,
be barefoot in the yard,
let roots reach beneath your feet
to the very center of soil.
Let the trees know you are listening.
 
Walk in the sun as much as you can,
so that your hair is light-soaked
and your cheeks are kissed 
by rays of canary yellow.
Just the movement of following 
the sun’s progress 
connects you to every other living thing 
seeking oxygen,
a community of breath.
 
Green yourself like a leaf,
drinking in droplets of water,
slowing yourself down to the minute pace of growth.
Your stillness becomes
part of the landscape,
so that even the wind thinks
you are tied to the earth
by invisible strings,
inextricably connected
by a force greater than human ambition.
You have left that nonsense behind
in favor of branches and birdsong.
When a storm comes,
you are grounded.

inspired by an image by Jakob Owens
 
Knowing that we are both sinking—
that we are all sinking—
I search your eyes for answers
in a world that is now tilted—
a world where the lens is a muddled turquoise.
There is an echo of fear 
from all of the years
that have gone before.
We are trembling, 
as children do,
after being swaddled in scratchy towels.
Parents reassuring us
with promises of a rainbow ice pop.
We long for that swaddling—
for someone to gently adjust the blinds
at twilight,
and cook up a pot of something bubbly, steaming,
and tomato-based—
fresh baked bread in a warm bowl.
 
Looking into the nature of want and longing,
we see ourselves in the mirror pool of eyes.
My soulful brown ovals meet your Aegean Sea blues.
I gaze into the deep forever of tomorrow.
 
The floor beneath our feet shifts on the diagonal.
The sky tilts, too.
The only way through is to float
and hold hands.
If we lose sight of the shore,
at least we will not lose each other.

Knowing eyes
contain the warmth of
summer’s sun-kissed rays 
and the patience of endless days.
This was my grandmother’s all-embracing grace,
bestowed with each,  
gentle cradle of my palm.
Stories of family
emerged on her tongue,
as she held my hand.
History passed from skin to skin this way.
She spoke of the island of her ancestors,
goats clinging to cliffs,
and the persistence of the people
who made a life there.
She brought this steadfast devotion 
with her to the mainland.
It followed her every movement,
like a feather of smoke—
from the job she earned 
based on her ability to sew a special button,
to her brave first steps
after having a stroke.
To find courage at every new beginning
is the great river source of strength.