The Bridge

I still pray for you

on long walks, and at night

sometimes when the world

is small and quiet,

or too big.

I pray your life will be rich

with God’s goodness,

sweet as your favorite

strawberry-rhubarb pie.

I pray that when you meet her,

you will be so happy.

Who knows, maybe

she will even show you

how to dance.

Funny now, how these

prayers are like little

gems of power

building a bridge, one drop

at a time for me to walk

my grief over,

and filling you with strength.

All these unspoken

colors illuminate the hope

that someday hello

will be woven with the fiber

of healed beginnings,

warming your hands

as much as mine.

Since our love crumbled

and drained out, these prayers—

this little, steady candle

remains.

It is enough.

Bookstore

You greet me like a fat tabby cat.

The door jingles and you’re at my side

nuzzling for attention, saying,

come out of the ugly drizzle;

here it is warm.

I wander down your aisles

where books crack and sigh

and open like daisy chain

crowns, each word a petal

in a garland to grace

those willing to listen.

These books smell like pine

trees, muffled walks in the snow,

cinnamon sticks and the first breath

of summer.     

These books have wandered

in pockets, under jackets in rainstorms,

on planes, between friends, lovers,

and enemies, held coffee mugs

and pencil marks, baked under

windowsills, and wrinkled

under tears.

So many journeys in one book,

in one aisle, in one bookstore,

in the world.

Cherry Blossoms (at the University of Washington)

petals flicker down--

thousands of winks

teased by the breeze.

frisbees, chiming

voices, children

in the grass, sneakers

on brick, on snow.

cameras flash

while

these snow faces

land so quietly—

thousands of beautiful deaths.