I see only a little
in the years someone told us
would be easy and safe
life is unfair and unkind
still challenging still testing
haven’t we grown enough?

I see only a little
grief and worry
weariness penetrates
despite our resolve
We are strong women
are we not?

I see only a little
but feel something more
a love of beauty
open and moving
depth of feeling
you are my heroine.


Carry the Cure

Wounds so big
Where do we begin to close them?
Gaping open for millennia
Oozing poison, spreading infection
Is there any life blood left
to carry the cure?

So easy to let the grief bury us alive.

But eyes are watching, calling attention
Two young raccoons, a dog, the ravens
Look at the beautiful sunrise

Some of us must choose to be the blood
Carry the light, the love, the hope
Open ourselves to all of it
The gaping wound and the cure


That’s the word that has been stewing in my head the past two weeks. Injustice shows up in politics and economics, in education and access to opportunities. It shows up in perceptions of genders and ages and what each can or should do. It shows up in families and between lovers. Basically, injustice rears its ugly head in every sort of human interaction. And it drives me insane. I want life to be fair. It isn’t. A bookmark, smudged and worn by the frequent strokes of my teenaged fingers, still chants its rhyme in the space between my ears.

“You fires belie the frailest frame. To set the world right is your aim.” Scorpio

Was it prophetic or did the chant make me as I am? Either way, the words are true.