Frozen ocean

Quicksilver winter sky

muted sunlight gleaming off

clouds like schools of fish

changing direction fast as a thought

platinum becomes white gold

snow dizzy from the rapid descent

its lack of direction

creating a visual cacophony

flakes blown like spiral shells

wind ripping righteous waves

across the drifts of a backyard beach

that has become of the barren forest

there is a new name for magic

written in the sea foam snow

frozen ocean, above and below

Strange grace

See the strange grace

of a soaring vulture

to whom death is life

and carnage, beauty

it is noble, majestic even

with wings stretched wide

in its cylindrical search

hoping for the hopeless

taking joy in the descent

Beneath the rubble

As you sift through the charred remains

of the room that was your heart

you catch the glimpse of something

shining beneath the rubble

Reaching for it with hopeful hands

you discover a polished silver frame

cradling an unblemished picture

of yourself at a much younger age

Red circle sled under one arm

trudging up a snowy hill

delight in your eyes

the curl of bliss upon your lips

And holding that perfect moment

between your blackened fingers

you realize -- it is enough

to rebuild this ravaged ruin

Welcome

If we do not make room

for the unexpected

set aside a small space

extend a welcome

it will barge in

and take one for itself

probably the best room you have

the one you have filled

with your most delicate treasures

the place you have guarded

and called your very own

it will not be yours anymore

so why not leave the side door open

a soft candle in the window

two comfortable chairs ready

for you to sit and listen

and become good friends

Prudence

The black-capped nuthatch

is decisive in his hunt for food

this seed not that

not that

not that

he does not blindly take in

whatever he comes across

instead he deliberately chooses

a single black bead

clenched in his beak like a third eye

he swallows wisdom

then returns to the search

The sky watches

The sky watches with curiosity

written on its wide clear face

chin stubbled with tree line

eyes spying mine from behind

tufts of wispy clouds

Is that amusement I see

in those waggling bird brows

could it be that as I delight in it

it delights in me?

For what I'm worth

I used to think my worth was in my ability to answer

at least half of the Jeopardy questions correctly,

in my fake blond hair with manufactured curls,

and my ability to break into dance at any given moment.

I believed worth and charm were inextricable,

and that I needed to work hard to maintain both.

Then came the clouds, the pain, the fear,

the inability to curl and dance and answer --

and a new understanding of worth.

It does not lie in my ability to capture attention,

in my humor, my talent, or my perfectly lined lips,

my worth does not lie in any part of my perfection,

(because perfection has a price, it does not give one.)

Not just a pretty piece, but the wounded whole

these grey hairs, this pierced heart,

these bowed legs, this mercurial brain;

My worth is not in me -- it is me.