She’s always been heavy handed, my mother, when she lays the paint on her water-based canvas.
It strikes me now as I sit down to write some ill-tempered thoughts about motivation that blood is dripping from my knuckles
This poem was born as a note roughly scribbled in a notebook. I wrote it from deep in the Black Hills of South Dakota, as I drank coffee on the porch and marveled at how loud the silence was. i close the door and exhale
pour out liquid words
Perhaps it was the way I sat there – hands alert over laptop keys as birds welcomed in the first morning light – that finally drove inspiration away.
Wildly, the rooted dandelion throws itself to the waiting wind.
I woman, mother, writer, friend AM breathe in, breathe out, foot down, grab hand NOT
I sang the Magnificat over the garden. It died anyway. He has not forgotten.
written for my dear friend and extraordinary artist, D Whigham THE POTTER The wheel spins. She throws heavy clay, imagining. Her hands move quickly, forming the moments of life for the fire and the flame.
“Watch and wait for the changing of land; the trees bend over, the grasses lay down, and you bow your head to the dirt. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and nothing is as it should be.”