I Know

I know your voice 

like I know my 

own heartbeat:

I sway to it, 

aimlessly dance.

I know the weight 

of your hand on 

my shoulder, 

the peace it brings

isn’t just chance. 

I know the lines 

on your eyes

when they twinkle, 

the wrinkle that centers

your brow.

I know the world 

makes more sense

when I’m with you, 

I wish I was 

with you right now. 

Shakespeare’s Gift

You, still Romeo,
me, forever Juliet:
the stars still align.

Three Trees

My children play 

in the shadow of 

three trees, 

taken from 

the same land 

my grandfather 

called home. 

They are rooted
deep, here, 

in the home 

that did not
want them, 

that never meant 

to feed them 

from its own 

black earth. 

Returning 

could only 
mean death 
to them now,
limbs pruned back 

and roots shaken
free of dirt, 

but they cannot 

belong here either, 

no matter 

how long their 

shadows 

are painted 

across the 

water. 

Fortune Cookie Fate

It remains, my love,
the red thread, binding us all.
It will never break.

Bagworms

Today,
I tried to
write a poem
about bagworms:
about being small
and scared
and limited,
and someday
learning to fly,
maybe,
or perhaps
about wrapping
myself
in a green tree
and holding on
for dear life,
or maybe
the poem was about
how alone
we are
insignificant,
but together
we can topple
entire forests...

maybe the poem
was just about
bagworms.
Maybe someday
I’ll finish it.

There is No

There is no 

love 

without 

grief, 

my darling. 

How can 

you say 

you have 

loved 

if your heart 

has not 

broken, 

once, 

twice, 

a hundred times? 

Loving 

anything means 

opening yourself 

up to be 

hurt 

by it, 

but without the 

pain, 

how would 

we know 

that the 

love 

was true? 

I am still 

grieving you, 

even on days that 

I wake 

to find a 

smile tucked 

into my cheeks. 

Haibun #1

The road, once mine entirely, is shared now with too many. Flowers I do not have names for paint the hills, are pressed to mud as we are forced off the path. Bees work quickly, visiting each bloom left standing before the mowers come. Already they are preparing for winter, for the death of spring and the coming chill. 

We will learn this, too:

the art of busyness and 

being well-prepared.