Chasing butterflies

smell pink rose

every green
nourishes me
pulling me further
from the gray
fuchsia and coral
begonia and mother-of-pearl


oh what a whirl
of sight
and color
after paltry days of torpor
I tend to grasp at

bee in rose

so I learn here
what it means
to fill up with joy
I’m a girl
he’s a boy
chasing butterflies
across sun-dappled foliage



what was I thinking
still tied up in blue laces
hopeful faces
of flowers even as they fade
under autumn skies
don’t you know we will
be back

cattail frolic.jpg

how could I be this lucky
fortunate girl
driving past such riches
of purple and yellow, side by side
with dried husks of late summer
cattails rising from rain-soaked ditches
the cornflowers
exquisitely unconcerned
with life driving by

painted with coffee, blueberries, and acrylics

Our summer carpet


It was the dads
who wanted to be rid of the dandelions
we sat for hours tying them stem to stem
into necklaces
worthy of Cleopatra
bracelets we imagined bangled
as we held hands and danced
and then she would spin
a whirling dervish in a pink headband
the clovers hiding their four-leafed numbers
for then, we were not intended to succeed
too quickly
the grass rich, and the weeds plentiful
but they looked like blooms
from Nebuchadnezzar’s hanging gardens
to us

Lying in a field of violets somewhere in Wisconsin contemplating my purpose

I wrote for my mother
I wrote for my child
back then, I wrote for my lover
and a friend
and I wrote for God.
Once under a lunar eclipse
I wrote for myself.
Are these the right answers?

I understand
that you have all the answers
you have said
they are already in my head
I write from my heart
for no one but myself
Is that the right answer?

I write for myself
I write to share
I write to contribute
to the common good
to the community of this village
to add my voice
Is that the right answer?

You told me to seek myself inside
I want to be cock-sure
to question why I can go silent
when he does not see you
see me
when he does not see us
I still put words in a daisy chain.
There is your answer–

sun beating down
flowers bloom
near summer ache
blue sky bloodied
it is dark here
so I wait
(not so)
for the light
of your
smile words company

monday random–life changes

  • In the worst of it, I cried at the end of Daddy’s Home
  • Christmas with the Kranks
  • and Lilo and Stitch
  • It’s okay. Smile. Laugh, it is funny but I like to think everyone has those guilty pleasures they go to for comfort when they really would rather be rolling around in a feather bed, and finishing it off with a pint of ice cream
  • I take that back–the worst of it was self-pity. No one appreciates that, and it made me kind of sick of myself
  • The best thing to do is to press on, move forward, keep working when you are dead tired
  • I can no longer ignore the past and walk around my weaknesses, but hard work does help me put aside the unhealthy thoughts and obsessions
  • like failing
  • and unkindnesses
  • It really is easier to forgive than to continue to hold onto all of that
  • There is something to be said about living in an area with four seasons. Winter can be rough, but it makes spring oh so sweet
  • I’ve been getting to know the wrens, woodpeckers, and cardinals in the area
  • The ice storm killed the crocus, but the daffodils are out
  • We are headed to a park by Lake Michigan to take pictures and scribble. Maybe doze some.
  • Monday is his Sunday, so this is the hind end of our weekend. Tonight–homemade soup and garlic bread
  • And two movies before bed

I hope you’re having a great monday! Thank you for listening–


(are we) sprung

let us run (hard)
it is not yet summer
but the sun
is burning my shoulder
and the clouds hang back
waiting for a sign
all buds bursting

let us not (give up)
stay between walls of ivy
each caveat they hurl
weighs tons–up against
daffodils in your sunglasses
and tulips–and rose oil
dabbed behind my ears

Wild flower on asphalt


Lying in the middle of prairie flowers and wild
grasses-better than in the road-and how much do I owe
for loss of time money and how much it cost
in the long run. Sometimes we mourn and then find out
we were holding the knife that cut down our past

When we met I was in a shop buying a chicken, writing
a poem on the back of a grocery list. I want that mystique
that kept you coming around. A rose died-so what
you gave it to me-so what. I can buy dozens of flowers
but you-there is just one-you fell asleep on my breast

Our love is not like the others, cool as Eskimo nights
our love is crispy like chalupas – with a creamy center
driving through the days and weeks, trying not to
drown ourselves. I painted you with a touch of noir, making you
over with the look of Bogart I needed to navigate life

I get blue when I see what has become of you
so far from the happy times I barely recognize
the boy from 1989. Did someone do this to you
(did I ) or did you let it happen?
Every happiness flown away like fritillaries


The Gulf fritillary or passion butterfly (Agraulis vanillae), photo by The Photographer