THE SHED

I found it.
Like a choice.
And I am grateful
I did.

But it took going into
a dark shed
to learn
the shovel
had always been
with me.
In my grip.

And then it took
shedding the shed
and digging down
instead of out
for me to move 
toward the well within.

WHICH?

Dew on a leaf.

A leaf dappled 

in dew. Canvas

or paint?

Which would you

rather be?

LOOSE LEAVES

Prisoners wriggle free

from the pages

of a foreboding folio.

Hope is unscrupulously

erased from a dispiriting

season. Exposures

are laid bare 

in the broad and darkening

daylight. Laundry's

hung out to dry

in a chilling air. Still

possibility is a nest

that's only woven 

from what is gathered

from leaves

and shadows

and what lies between

surrendering and uncertainty

and the mesh that mixes 

our desires with our amnesia.

THE ONE SONG*

hyacinths push 

through the loamy earth

coyote's howl pierces

the darkness around the moon

let’s do our part

let’s take our turn 

at being 

the Guzla

the singer 

and the instrument 

who through 

a single string only 

braid pain 

and beauty 

into one 

solemn note

one ancient song

one epic story

that holds all of us

now and always

*Inspired by Mark Nepo's book, Seven Thousand Ways to Listen