Uncover the Sun

Come Now,


There are wretched

fights we could have

over differences of opinions,

we could shout

and call each other names,

prove our points again and again

amid the thump thump cadence

of our too-much-human hearts


But the hour grows late,

the climate contrary,

and all the fight in me

would rather grow vegetables

and plant trees

for generations of creatures and people

who may be no relation at all

except by heart


The future

will come unbidden

whether we shake hands

and rise to meet it together

or quarrel with ourselves

to the end, so let us

walk in sweet togetherness

rather than bitter separation


Come now, the sea is rising,

the earth claps her hands

and rocks the ground,

trying with every kind of weather

to reach her fractious babes,

but we cannot seem to listen

over the sound of our own

terrible thoughts and deeds


Haven’t we already proven

that hate makes skeletons

of us all

much sooner than necessary?

And over here, have you noticed

trees are budding along their tips

and the squirrels are basking

in the almost spring sun


What a world of beauty we ignore

in order to prove

we are in the running

for a fast race

to the finish line of humanity,

where no one wins, while

the birds sing the sun awake

and new leaves unfurl


Come now, there is no reason

more important

than the light sparkling from your eyes

into mine, than your smile

sharing this human story,

there is no reason

more important

than this

Uncover the Sun

Thoughts on Poetry


Often when the hour grows later,

poetry’s urgency becomes greater

to visit minds through the ages 

and be inscribed onto pages,

(often working without wages)


Poems, once the right words are found

expect us to find them quite profound,

to appreciate each syllable and sound

as we go and write them down


If we find them true and deep,

we memorize the ones we want to keep,

and poems accept that honor too,

recognizing it as their due


No matter the wit of their lyric bent,

how many metaphors came or went

poems don’t lord it over prose

though they like to keep it on its toes


Life relates in mostly prose,

told as a story as one grows,

but when events bring deep pain

we reach for poetry again

Uncover the Sun

Red Rock


Sit under the red

rock arches

of the past,

where friends and family

have gone to dust


Sift your fingers

through the sand,

tiny fragments

of weathered stone and bone,

and imagine


Some day

you too, will be beyond memory,

forgotten by every human mind

until only the earth



And yet, every thought

every breath, every laugh

the world collects

into a whole

that is shared with all


You are made of

history, and full of particles

of those you have not met,

every stranger,



You may try and try

to make your mark upon the world

and yet, without striving

you have already become

part of this earth collective


An integral part

of past and future

that someday

someone may sift their hands


Uncover the Sun

Walk Through


Walk through

that open door of grief

and you may find

a softer heart

and a kindness of memory


Under the pain and sorrow

are images

of smiling faces

and moments of togetherness

that transcend time


Beneath the wrenching alone

are all of the ways

of connection and comfort,

the conversations between hearts

when they love


On days

when grief spills from the door

and overwhelms everything,

sit quietly and remember



When you walk through

that open door of grief,

you may find

a clear window

into forever

Uncover the Sun

The Fog


The fog has slept all night

upon the ground,

barely waking to sit up

and climb the sky

with chill fingers


It clings to trees

and ghosts the houses,

thickening the air

with all the words

we cannot say


The words that would make

this world real,

real as the fires

that turn acres

into kindling


Real as the bodies

curled in sleep

in doorways of despair

town after town,

city after city


The fog finally reaches

right into daylight

and takes the long sentences

filled with all the words we cannot say

and says them, says them all


Uncover the Sun

Tell You


No one wants to tell you

it may always hurt,

your heart, pummeled by death

and swollen and bruised

by years of loss later


No one wants to tell you

that as you age

you will meet death suddenly

in hospital corridors

and on roadways


No one wants to tell you

that there will be other phone calls

that plunge your stomach down

and bend your knees

in disbelief


No one wants to tell you

that you’ve become part of a group

others don’t want to know,

those that have been seared

to the soul


No one wants to tell you

that time only blunts the pain

but does not remove it,

and that the missing doesn’t disappear,

only migrates


No one wants to tell you

that to be fully alive

you have to look death in the face

again and again, even your own,

until you no longer fear it


No one wants to tell you

that accepting

loss as a part of love

is what it truly means

to be human



Uncover the Sun



We think we know

what will come

and then

something unheard

or unthought

or never experienced

plummets us

out of our minds

and into our small bodies


This human wear is wearying

and humbling

because just when we think

we are powerful

life fells us with a bold ask

to see more deeply

to feel more fully

to be more than we ever thought


Uncover the Sun

Past Any Season


Autumn is everything-colored

except black and white,

magenta, dark purple,

orange and red and gold,

every shade ever seen in gardens


If we were leaves

would we love each other

far past youthful green

into the fallen months

of rusty brown?


Would we remember each other

long after we lay

on mossy ground,

slowly darkening

into earth again?


Every autumn I picture you

playing in the fallen leaf piles,

throwing them sky high

and laughing

past any season


Uncover the Sun

Not Broken

I’ve heard therapists say it about their clients, friends say it about their friends, casual acquaintances mention it regarding someone who’s going through a hard time. And every time I hear, “He’s broken, she’s broken, they’re broken,” I wince. Why? Because broken is a label that dehumanizes, that treats people as if they are machines. Every time I hear this phrase, I picture a person broken down by the side of the road with others walking by glad that it’s not them. And yes, there is a patronizing quality in, “She’s broken,” as if the person saying it is better, more whole, not as prone to the dings and pains of being human.

Being “broken,” implies that we need fixing, usually by something or someone else. And we all do need help sometimes. But if you go out there and break a leg, usually the doctor puts it in a cast, recommends rest and elevation, and tells you it will heal in about six weeks. Your leg may be broken, but no one suggests that you are. We humans have this amazing innate ability to heal, given the right support, education, and encouragement.

Being broken also implies that something doesn’t work, that you don’t work, and in a capitalist society, not working is the ultimate sin. We categorize people by whether they have a “good job,” or not, usually one that pays well, rather than one that brings joy and a sense of service and purpose. People who are not working for money at all, like stay-at-home parents, are considered less powerful in this society. If your life is “not working,” if you are unable to conform, you are considered less valuable as a human being.

Labeling someone, “broken,” puts them in a category of “the other,” and it’s a lot easier to ignore, dismiss, and incarcerate “broken others.” So, no, you’re not broken. You may be going through utter hell, you may have scars from physical injury, emotional trauma, or be grieving the fate of mankind, but you’re not broken, you’re human.

Uncover the Sun

Your Metal


Test your metal,

let it sing to you

under the tap tap hammer

of everyday life


The instrument of air

will play tunes

upon that windchime

of yours


Enough fire will form

any tool you’ll ever need

to dig or till,

sew or bejewel


Your metal will serve you well

as weapons sing

through the air

in fierce metallic cries


Your metal-

perfectly balanced

between life and death,

love and loss



every bit of your metal

will fall down

into earth’s veins again


Death, that metallurgist,

will render you

forge ready

once more



who knows what

you will then