last year,

there were only spaces.

a row here,
a row there.

now,

I can see it beginning.

the sunflowers,
the wildflowers,
the solar lanterns,
the softly lit butterfly chimes.

I laughed inside,
silent, yet free.

and then a remembering.

once upon a time,
I wrote about wanting to become
the small-town eccentric old lady.

a tap on the shoulder.

a raised brow.

my dear…

I think you are on your way there.

the sunflowers that aren’t yet sunflowers

are growing before my eyes.

the rain is music,

and yet it also creates music

on the tin roof
of the carport.

the countless times

the rain makes
the leaves bow.

every storm,

every shower,

every small blessing.

imagine that kind of gratitude.

At Sugarite, in this breathtaking stillness, I find all the pieces of myself scattered by the world.

Here, they are gathered together and held gently in the palm of life’s hands.

when my time
draws its final breath,

what i most hope they know

is how deeply i have loved
and been loved.

by hands,

by trees,

by a gaze that meets mine in silence,

by the earth
and her quiet rituals.

and by the one,
whatever name it wears,

who entrusted me
with this sacred life.

this…

this is being held

by what is true.

the fence did its best

to hold the wild back,

but i crafted it

from feathers i’d discovered

while learning to fly.

perhaps

i never intended

for the wild to be held back.

after all,

we never needed the fence.

we only needed to remember…

we are the wind,

the sky,

and the ones who dare to rise.

i will offer what is raw and quiet,

a handful of small luminous truths…

the ache,

the gratitude,

the soft insistence to be seen.

may those threads

meet another’s thread and warm,

so that we learn

the shape of belonging

by touch.

may i come each night

and fold this letter to the wind?

may i send a question

on a cool fall breath

and listen for an answer

that has walked the mesa home?

a feather caught in its descent.

stones burnished by touch.

morning light spilling its golden lines

across the floor of memory.

the chest holds all that is precious

to my quiet heart.

the colors of a day held close.

the way attention makes beauty sing.

the dance between image and word.

braided into one breathing thing.