I look up and experience her music as a Beatitude of Peace, a feathery sonnet that rings of grace and hope...

There in the deep sack of night, a tiny Hope was born. 

See how the winds have shaped her hands to hold hope? So tenuous, it trembles like a hummingbird’s heart. She gently carries hope to a nest in the midst of the maelstrom and tilts it into the bowl of tiny feathers and mosses. Hope is so hard to cup. She might need your help when it seeps through...

Here I am, God, here I am. Here I am with the dishes in the sink, the dust on the shelves, the skin on my hands which is drying out and starting to crack. My appetite has gone, without any other bodies to remind my body of itself. I can pray for salvation but my bones know this is all there is....

There’s no package called hope. Nothing at a shop to look for. Hope won’t store like hay in a barn. It is a last leaf on a branch in deep winter. It is a singular thing, firm when it’s found—a hand reached out. A word to the marrow. Hope is fine-grained, like lavender gone to seed. Gossamer,...

(written for the Presidential Election, 2016) I walk in, as on pilgrimage. The altar cloths are red, white, and blue the ushers are the women who have been running these things who have been running everything since before I was born. I’m handed the ballot like a scroll because the questions seem...

Inexplicable. How we rise each morning, instead of burying our heads under bedcovers, sewing them shut. Why we keep on welcoming babies with bone-deep joy to this sordid world. How we fill burlap sacks with grit and gratitude, our hands shredded as we drag one over the other....

Through the windy night something is coming up the path towards the house. I have always hated to wait for things. I think I will go to meet whatever it is.

A man sits on the rubble— not just in the rubble, but on the pile of what remains. No people in the bombed-out houses. No dogs. No birds. Just ragged hunks of concrete and loss. And on his perch he is playing an instrument constructed of what is left—an olive oil can, a broom handle, a bowed...

I am so tired and weary, So tired of the endless fight, So weary of waiting the dawn And finding endless night. That I ask but rest and quiet— Rest for the days that are gone, And quiet for the little space That I must journey on.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all— And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard— And sore must be the storm— That ­could abash the ­little Bird That kept so many warm— I’ve heard it in the...

Is the fire going out? Not in your belly, for you are still alive, but in your soul, that place where dreams fuel commitment where longings shape action where meaning flames purpose where passion ignites and rekindles your life fire. If your soul smolders dream on till you flame like a chalice of...

I stretch forth my hand Knowing not what I shall touch... A tender spot, An open wound, Warmth, Pulsing life, Fragile blossoms, A rock, Ice. I am tentative, trembling... Wishing to avoid hurt, Wanting to link my life with Life. Lonely, I desire companions Naked, I long for defenders....

Despair is my private pain Born from what I have failed to say failed to do failed to overcome. Be still my inner self let me rise to you let me reach down into your pain and soothe you....