A very acceptable ratio of trash to treasure.

  • Resist

    A flower grows
    in the cracks
    of concrete,

    touching the sunlight
    between the shadows
    cast by the tall buildings
    that surround it –

    Like hope
    in a broken place,
    blooming
    in the ruins.

    Yellow petals
    yearning for warmth,
    stretching
    towards the light.

  • Werewolf.

    They say
    the moon affects the tide,
    drawing water
    like breath,

    in gentle rhythm,
    a heartbeat
    in silver threads of light.

    It pulls at me too,
    whispers to
    the water in my blood,

    songs
    in a language
    I cannot understand.

    But I can feel it
    in the quiet
    between the words —

    a primal connection
    that stirs
    my soul

    like the ocean tide.

  • A life woven from everyday joys.

    List 30 things that make you happy.

    It doesn’t take much to make me smile really.

    • Waking up in the morning, reaching across the bed and touching my partner’s arm.
    • My oldest kid showing me one of their artistic creations.
    • The excitement of my youngest when they’ve found something they think will make me laugh.
    • The first sprouts that appear after I plant seeds.
    • When my chickens come running up to me as if they’re excited to see me.
    • The way one of my cats starts purring as soon as she sees me.
    • The smell of coffee brewing.
    • The moment after work when I sit down and realize I can rest awhile.
    • Wildflowers blooming between the sidewalk cracks.
    • When one of my kids rescues a worm or a snail from the sidewalk.
    • A message from a friend waiting for me on my phone as soon as I wake up.
    • When the breeze smells like rain just before a storm.
    • Hearing the words “I love you” completely unprompted.
    • The feeling of grass under my feet.
    • A cuddle with one of my cats.
    • When one of my kids takes time to share one of their interests with me.
    • Thunderstorms.
    • Picking apples from the tree that grows down the street.
    • Sharing food with friends.
    • Making a meal I know my family will really love.
    • The weight of blankets on a cool night.
    • Finding a really cool rock.
    • Sitting around a camp fire.
    • Watching scary movies with popcorn.
    • The way to snow glistens when the sun is shining.
    • When someone brings me a little gift because whatever it is reminded them of me.
    • Seeing a female cardinal because I think they’re really pretty.
    • A bite of milk chocolate.
    • And most of all — realizing I’ve built a life filled with so much everyday joy.

  • Habit

    Describe one habit that brings you joy.

    I don’t have many habits. My morning rituals hang on routine more than dependence.
    But one thing I do have each day is coffee. Everything else waits until that first sip — rich, dark flavor with a swirl of oat milk, turning deep brown to caramel.

    It’s hard to explain the scent as I cradle the mug close to my mouth–chocolate and berries, maybe.
    Warm. A little earthy. Sweet.

    I drink it slowly, letting the heat envelope me–the gentle brew, a familiar comfort.

  • What comes after … ?

    What are you curious about?

    As the moments of life begin to dwindle I find myself wondering what comes after. Does everything just fade to black? Is there simply nothing after I draw my last breath?

    Maybe the only trace I’ll leave behind is a ghost flickering in the memories of my children. I’ll linger in the gentle shape of their smiles – echoes of my own. In the way they laugh, or bend to tend the creatures the world forgets. Small, borrowed pieces of me, still breathing, even as I drift into the shadows.

    Will it be like falling asleep? Warm and welcoming. Encircled in the arms of those who came before? Held in the quiet of forever.

    Or just – nothing?

    The question presses heavier as the days slip away, and the seasons ahead feel far shorter than those that lay behind me.

  • Do you see me?

    How would you describe yourself to someone who can’t see you?

    “I guess if you can’t see me, looks aren’t really a huge deal,” I say like it doesn’t matter … but maybe it does, maybe I need you to see me. You can hear the shuffling of soft fabric as I move, the tap of a mug on the table top. There’s a pause and you wonder if maybe I’m considering what to say next — or maybe, I’m just tired.

    I take a breath, slow and deliberate. You almost suspect that I’m taking a drag from a cigarette – I’m not, it’s a filthy habit. I’ve got enough vices without adding that one.

    More shuffling – a whisper of denim, the soft shrug of cotton. “But you must be interested or you wouldn’t have asked,” I acknowledge and you wonder if maybe I leaned closer as I spoke. You can smell coffee in the air and the calendula from the moisturizer on my skin.

    “Maybe I’m a little strange?” A laugh. “No, not strange really – I’m just a girl who’s lived long enough to have worn a few different faces.”

    The mug taps against the table again, more gently this time, and you can hear my breathing. Steady in the darkness.

    “I like to decorate this body with eyeliner and black nail polish,” I say softly, you can hear a candle flame flicker, a gentle drip of wax. “The lipstick always has to look like blood, when I wear it.”

    My breath catches.

    “I like to be seen.”

    You can feel a hand atop your hand now. Cold. As if the bones beneath the softness of the skin are made of ice – and you shiver, without meaning to.

    But you don’t pull away.

    I draw your palm to my cheek and you can feel the brush of curls against your curious fingertips. There’s a scent but it isn’t intense – just clean.

    The silence stretches into the shadows and it’s almost comfortable now – inviting.

    “Do you see me?”

  • Reasonable Sacrifices

    One picture
    among thousands,
    she holds the ghost
    of her child in her arms.
    Their fragile bones,
    draped in flesh thin as muslin.
    Sunken eyes
    begging for crumbs

    The image will linger behind your eyelids forever,
    seared into the tissue of your brain
    like a scar marking your helplessness.

    Infants, diapered carefully with garbage bags,
    by hands that tremble with love
    and grief –
    hands that cannot rescue,
    cannot feed,
    only hold and comfort.

    Starved by those who ration
    outrage instead of bread,
    who speak of tunnels
    and vengeance
    while children waste.

    As if babies can be combatants,
    and civilians reasonable sacrifices.

    Your throat tightens –
    the taste of ash and sorrow
    coating your tongue

    And the testament glows on your screen –
    like a fire consuming tents
    and people

    The tears burn
    before they fall.

    Help a family in Palestine

    https://tinyurl.com/bpaf4fap

  • Until it isn’t

    It’s funny, I guess.

    Not funny, haha, but in the odd way that sometimes the universe bites down with barbed wire teeth for finding comfort in the mundane.

    Yesterday, I wrote about the rhythm of a typical day. The soothing tick of the clock, counting familiar moments.

    And then my child was in the emergency room.

  • Today is typical.

    Was today typical?

    The same rhythm: opening my eyes, splashing some coffee down my throat, and trying to wake up before work begins. I talk with my partner, wake the kids, tend the creatures, and step into the day.

    I like the predictability of it – the gentle security in the soft click of the clock, counting the moments.

  • Through my own lens.

    How would you describe yourself to someone?

    How would I describe myself to someone? Physically, I look like a typical person you might see walking down the street — brown eyes and dark curls that are in a perpetual state of disarray. Slightly tanned skin that doesn’t burn easily but is still slathered in sunscreen. Lines on my forehead that deepen when I raise my eyebrows. I wear dark glasses that read as librarian or punk, depending on the look in my eyes. I think my face is a bit weathered but some people find it pretty — and honestly, so do I.

    I often look thoughtful or angry — my resting expression sits somewhere between pensive and worried. People often wonder if I’m upset. Spoiler alert — I’m not — I’m just observing. I’ve always been a better listener than a talker and I try to be careful when I do speak because even in silence I can be misunderstood. But that’s not about me, really, everyone has their own lens through which they interpret the world.

    The lines will deepen and the world will continue to see me as it does, but as I age I’m learning to be kinder to myself — to hold my own trauma, broken edges, quirks, and quiet with care.

    So that’s who I am, I guess. That’s how I would describe myself.