What is a weed?

What is a flower?

Who decides what beauty is

and what it isn’t?

Are those flowers,

battered by the storm,

less beautiful?

Unworthy of notice?

An injured butterfly appears,

fluttering above me,

circling softly,

then resting beside me

on the rock.

Battered.

Torn.

Still flying.

Still beautiful.

And in that moment,

I realize…

I have all the answers I need.

a hand held.

a bird overhead.

the smell
of summer earth.

entire worlds

inside
a single moment.

i almost can’t remember
who i was
before this beauty found me.

before the Quiet
lit the universe
from within.

before the darkness
split open
and burst into life,

offering this gift of sight
to one
who had been
walking blind.

today,

I held a brief spring moment
in the palm of my hand.

delicate sunlight,
feather-soft,
gone too soon.

my favorite part of the day
is not the loud brilliance
of sunrise.

the whisper

the soft, slow change
from night to day.

the moment
when the crickets
and the birds
sing together,

and the moon,
still keeping watch
as morning finds the earth.

I am in love with those precious moments before bed.

the day is over.

there is nothing more
that can be done.

time to lay my burdens down.

the shield and armor
I have worn all day
finally removed.

and for a little while,

I can simply sit
and be.

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.

There are evenings
when sorrow arrives without warning,

soft as a shadow,
quiet as a leaf falling
in an empty room.

It touches the surface of my heart,
and something inside me opens.

maybe I need the wild
to survive
ordering the chaos.