You Will Rise


You’re the bread dough
out on the windowsill,
the sun in the
morning skies.

You’re the balloon slipped
from a tiny hand,
and the gaze of
searching eyes.
You’re the flood waters
after days of rain.
and Lazarus stumbling
in surprise.

You’re the full wolf moon
on a January night.
Through the darkness
you will rise.




The Way She Leaves Me


It’s 4 a.m. and she brings me coffee. She sits with me in the bed. And she says things that make the wings in my soul twitch and tremble, preparing to fly. Not away, I would never fly away from her, in the frightened uncomfortable way of wild, nervous birds. No, this is more of a soaring on pure, clean joy, at being so greatly loved and cared for.

We talk in the darkness, steam rising from our cups and honesty filling the room with wakeful heat. She is preparing to leave me for the day — it is a Monday and work is required — but I can feel her struggling with the desire to crawl back beneath the covers with me and stay. She falls silent sometimes, gazes at me like the Wolf she is, like I am the moon in her early morning sky. I am.

I watch her shoulders tense as if they were covered in bristling fur. I feel her teeth clawing at my neck and nails biting into my hip. She will leave me soon but she wants me hungry before she goes. What’s more, she wants to carry that hunger with her too. She wants to feel it in her bones all day — to know that no matter the distance between us, I ache with it just as she does.

She checks the clock again, and growls, rolling out of bed. The right thing is pulling her, and it always wins. It’s one of the things I love about her — although today, I groan, protesting loudly about it. I watch her putting clothes on her body, and wonder how she can make that process just as gut-wrenchingly sexy as taking them off.

She knows I will linger here, in her bed. I will sip the remainder of my coffee, pull her still-warm pillow tight against my body, and watch the sunrise through her window before drifting back to sleep. Oh. So. Hungry. She tucks in her shirt tail, and threads her belt into the loops on her jeans. She pulls the blankets up around my shoulders and leans in for a last kiss, then two more.

I watch her pull the bedroom door closed and then listen for the echo of her work boots on the hardwood floor. She is leaving. Twelve steps between here and the front door and every last one feels like the Grand Canyon. Still I smile in the darkness of her bedroom. I watch her headlights sweep the ceiling over my head. I know she is a hungry Wolf, and she will be back.


Full Moon Bathing


Mother of the night calls
and I step into the trees.
The cloak of my cares
slips, in a fall of silk
from my shoulders and
bare, I sink into the arms
of deep, warm water.

We whisper, as sisters do,
of hopes and change,
the extravagance
of the universe.
I confess the ache of
my longing for you,
and she reminds me
the journey is the ‘this’.

Sleep pulls me, protesting,
from her watery feet,
so she fills my hands
with blessings —
courage, clarity, love.