Writing

Golden-crowned kinglet

Flickering from twig to twig

Barely a whisper of movement—

A sliver of sound in the silence.

In the darkness and despair,

Amidst uncertainty and doubt,

It is enough.

Does the snake look back with longing,

oh, soft translucent skeleton that held

her hopes and fears and desires—

until it could not?

Does the butterfly carry a memory of that comforting,

smothering...

Sing of the shattering—

the shadowed abyss of despair.

Sing of endless hungry nights

snatching soul-deep. Sing

of the chasm where

hope once lived,

where shame has swallowed

the light.

Sing of the...

My muse isn't the

meandering mist

over mountain streams;

bright on a sharp morning.

My muse isn't the

rippling song

of a twilight thrush;

slipping through the gloam.

My muse isn't the

brave...

We are pilgrims from a small world.

We're afraid of our mothers, our lovers, and each other.

Afraid of car-washes, laundromats, and drive-thru's.

We are scared of dying, but terrified of...