to be truthful,

sometimes,
i am terrified of loving this much.

between the worlds

some mornings
the day greets you quietly
and like a familiar, will
curl up next to you, softly
or climb into your lap
some times
the day greets you gently
you rise in surrender
to the moving shape
of things
some mornings
you slip into consciousness
with the same
ease you slip into dream
and the night
kisses you sweetly as you leave her arms
the day
not yet crowning, the moon
beginning the sultry-eyed final act, as
she tucks herself in before
the first tendrils of light
these mornings
you remember, with familiarity
a certain changing shape
a certain glow
a creature within, this wild one once
who followed the scent of mystery on the wind, who
knew the sound of her own
name when it was called by
all those many wild ones
once
her skirt scraped the dance floor of the sky and
the heavens split open to wash the earth again
with rain
to nourish the soil that we all grow from
she, this, I
who now wear the night sky like a blanket
and rise from dreaming's easeful wandering
to live this day like an arrow
sharp, to the point,
true and
aimed.

before dawn

i watch the bart train navigate
through the city lights in
the last lingering darkness of night
a thin thread of light, silent at this distance
snaking, sliding, slicing through
the jumbled horizon
the air is cold on my face
but in that enlivening, not painful way
i feel the moisture in it's taste
and i am grateful for the gentle and consistent
rain of late
this is morning, today
my daughter woke with a squeaking shriek at 4 am,
hungry and complaining a little, though she still smiles
every time our eyes meet

what an angel

i surrender to the sharpness with which i am awake
and rise,
to start the day
why not?
this may be the only time i get to myself, today
quick and quiet
stolen moments, precious in their weight
this is me, today
new and unfolding
bold and broken open
trying,
trying,
trying to shake loose the hold of doubt's roots in my mind
to release and remold the texture and shape of matter, of muscle
and sinew and bone
alone, this morning
with myself
the lights, the night
the cold, fresh air
that presses up all around me,
reminding
my skin of its shape