A dear friend of mine recently described her new found love for ballet. She felt silly in her enthusiasm because she was a novice and knew nothing about the technical aspects of the dance, she just knew she loved it. That’s how I feel about poetry. There is a naive joy in it for me.


As I sink
deeper into the snow,
I feel utterly held.

My mood lightens,
body and mind soften,

a mild hangover—

that is like a murky veil
blocking me from what’s beyond.

As I fall further
into this suspension,

I drift back to
my dreams,

to a wordless conversation
with bears, birds and snakes—

a kinship I wish to carry over
into waking life.

In this moment
of solace,

I’m reminded
of a poem that’s been floating around in my mind.

It goes something like this;

Why is it
that I insist
on grand signs from God?

When the moments
I feel most connected

are as simple — and profound

as the vibration
of that dying moth
on my finger…

or the rustling of the grass
against the snow
that holds me
in Love.


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