After the Rainfall

After the rainfall,
the soft sand cements
and saves the footprints
of those who come soon after.

After the rainfall,
the clouds cover the sky,
then roll away to make way
for a soft blue fog.

After the rainfall,
children come back outside to play,
quiet and calm like the morning,
and the world returns to its routine.

The Mint Green Room

The mint green room was a humble size.

The bed was large, though, and hugged

Me when I sank into it. Maybe the walls

Were white, but the aroma was mint green.

I was a small child in an old lady’s bed,

And in the mornings I woke up to coffee

And blue jays. I would hear a light tune

From the grand piano upstairs and slowly

Roll out of bed. The cookie-cutter room

Was almost lively at night; the crickets

Chirped through the window and a sliver

Of light danced across the bed. Sometimes

The cat would chase it, but mostly he hid

Under the bed. My imagination ran wild

There. Perhaps I needed some company

In the empty space. I often stayed up late

With the crickets because the mornings

Were too quiet. This mint green room,

A home away from home, was where I

Tried my first taste of independence.

The Animal Abode

The animal abode
was carefully tucked
into the back pocket
of the chocolate box neighborhood,
where every other piece of property
held a cottage,
and the mansions filled in between.
It was too homey of a home,
at least for me,
because we all lived there
and grew old there
and spent our summers at the beach
and winters in our eclectic houses,
year after year after year.
The animal abode
was not too homey, however;
in fact, I never knew it existed.
I had traced every trail
in the tiny community,
but there was no trail to lead me here.
I wish it were owned
by the animals.
I would spend all my days
living on this almost untouched
patch of land
until I had studied every inch
of this place, too.

Airplanes and Space

It's an overcast dull grey day,

But I am moving. I am moving so fast

That I'm afraid if I blink,

I will miss the flight. The flight is the best part

Because it's the only chance

To be in so many different places

In such a short amount of time.

I always had a fascination with space.

I wanted to go to Mars

Since I couldn't reach the stars.

I erased logic and for a moment,

It made perfect sense.

The views, the discoveries, the problem-solving

Would be nothing like here on Earth.

I would have an entire planet to discover,

No passports or visas necessary,

No itinerary or travel guide

Or pre-marked hiking trails.

For now, this is what I have:

Airplanes over man-made cities

And man-made bridges over bays

And islands and towns to rediscover.

Norris Lake

In early summer, there I was,
stood on a ship in the midst
of an engulfing maze-like lake.
The lively green Appalachian Mountains
surrounded the clear lake
and I was alive, breathing
and spinning around in the middle
of this three-dimensional postcard.
Jumping off the ship
into the warm, but refreshing lake
was like jumping into a fantasy world
where everything real is forgotten.
I melted away as I sank
into the silky water,
the sun warming my skin
as I stayed still in a back float,
stunned at the surreal silence
As my ears seeped just below the surface.

Split Second

You shift the gear and go,
In reverse, in drive, on the road,
Another car comes, collides, crushes your car.
You are only bruised. He and his car are fine.

You retrace your steps and count your blessings,
Grateful for the split second that saved you,
But you can't help but think
That an extra few seconds wouldn't have hurt.
Why me, why now, why the damage, why the injustice?

The frailty of a second, a moment, a life
Spins your mind like the amusement park ride
You rode one too many times.
Nausea sets in, not from what happened,
But from reliving what happened again and again,
Each time imagining a different way it could have happened.

You realize you were holding your breath,
So you let it out, trembling,
And close your eyes, hoping to think of something new.

What New York is Made For

New York doesn't stop at a red light.
The screens don't turn off at midnight.
Buildings don't stop at the second floor.
Builders don't stop with a revolving door.
New Yorkers don't fall short of their dreams.
Rivers don't dwindle into streams.
Bridges don't end halfway across the bay.
New York is made for going all the way.

Ella

Anyone that joyful and energetic
Must be hiding something.
The laws of nature
Wouldn't allow that much joy
Without a balancing act of struggle.

Ella was the best actress I ever knew.
Her eyes always sparkled;
Her laugh seemed effortless.
She was always doing something
And never stopped to catch a breath.
She was always running from something
And couldn't stop to catch a breath.

Sometimes the monster caught up to her
And she had to go to battle.
Eventually, she learned that in fighting
She would always lose,
So she cared for it instead,
Thinking love would solve everything.

Some creatures can't be tamed.

When you run from the same monster for so long,
Running starts to get easier,
And even when the monster goes to sleep,
You forget that you don't have to keep running.

Other times, Ella saw a flicker of humanity
When she turned to face the monster.
Sympathetic eyes, or maybe begging eyes.
She couldn't tell the difference.
And in those moments, she let the monster catch up to her.
Besides, she needed to rest her feet.

At last, she ran far enough away where she could hide.
When she peered out from behind the bushes,
The flickers turned into moments, then days,
But she knew she had to watch from afar.

Closer

Look closer—
The clouds echo the silhouette of the trees,
Not to fit in, but to amplify the trees' whisper.
The ripples run to shore painted in rainbows,
Carrying the sky so it, too, can touch the sand.
The sand's craters await footprints
And their metamorphosis with the changing tides.
The bench on the beach is made for standing on
And the dock is made for diving under.

Look closer—
And maybe you will see the world
Not for what it is, but for what it could be.

Shell

She carries a shell in her pocket,
Not a wallet nor a key,
Because the shell reminds her that empty
Is a wonderful place to be.
She has room to become full
As a shell fills with sand,
And as the shell holds sounds of the sea,
She holds sounds of the land.

Postcard from Guillac

I’ve just stopped in a village;

There’s no post office here,
But I’ll send this to you later.
I’m writing from Guillac,
Where hydrangeas surround
The ancient stone buildings
And fill the flowerpots.
There’s only a school and a church
And a bar and a cemetery,
Ordinary for a small French town.
Narrow paths through thick woods
And the hot humid air
Have made the bike ride here a long one,
But the fresh scent of the dewy grass
And cool breeze from the river
And the church bells and birds
Ringing and singing in harmony
Have made it worthwhile.

Visit with Grandpa

I went to visit my grandpa this morning
To keep my mom company.
Or, maybe the song on the radio today
Said it better. “Visit your grandfather
Every chance you get.” The world
Sure is funny with its coincidences.

The oxygen tank clinked alongside him
As we walked him back to the car
After his appointment. As he breathed
Through clear tubes and coughed
A few times, the car radio played
“Just Breathe,” as though breathing
Is the one simple thing we all can do
With ease, as though breathing
Is the solution, but sometimes breathing
Is the problem.

Back in the doctor’s office,
He recalled the years
When his grandparents were born
And when his children graduated school,
And he told jokes like he didn’t even
Have to think, but when he climbs
Out of the car, he is climbing a mountain,
Gasping for air in the high altitude.
I fear that he is nearing the top.

No-Man’s Land

All the silver buildings tower

Over the palm trees
And clouds sit atop them
Like smoke.
Their metal walls
Must be sizzling
In the heat.
The more I stare,
The more out of place
They appear.

Silver and black clashes
Against aqua and white.
The tensions rises
To a war.
The tan sand
Is a no-man’s land.

If zero were a place,
It would be right along the shore,
Negative extending
Toward the buildings,
Positive pushing
Toward the ocean.

Zero is my favorite number.
I can be nothing
Or I can just be,
With no weight attached,
No need to be
Anything in particular.

I lie in the sand
And close my eyes.
I can’t see the war
Anymore.

The Girl from Manhattan

She’s in her early twenties
In the middle of Manhattan,
Living it up, making it work.
No– living at work, making it up.
She’s a writer and refuses
To be anything else.
She’ll pay the bills;
She’ll publish her book;
She’ll find someone
Who treats her better.
She says all these things.
Says she’s a dreamer.
There are many dreamers
In Manhattan, but when she says it,
She means she’s a liar.
She can’t face the fact
That her childhood plans
Are stomped on by corporate work
And she buries herself
In the articles she writes
And won’t let herself look
At the paycheck because
It’s never enough, but that’s never
Enough to quit because where
Would she go next?
She’s a writer. And this world
No longer values creativity,
So she shoves her mind
In a neat little box
And types what they want to hear
Because she can’t afford to hear
The words “let go” or “fired” again.
She used to live it up and make it work,
But the bills piled up, so now
She lives at work and makes it up
Because she’s a liar.
Because she’s a dreamer.
And she can’t face the fact
That she’s not living it up anymore.

A Traveler, Not a Tourist

I want to walk through air-conditioned airports
To hear five languages on the way to my gate.
I want to walk through a new city
And be stopped by someone
From halfway around the world
Asking for directions on my way
To the bake shop for lunch.
I want to run up hills to see fields of lavender
And lawns of fresh green grass.
I want to ride a bike through villages
Untouched by tourists
And learn about the people’s families and stories.
I want to learn about their favorite
Place to have a picnic
And about the tree that still stands
Where they used to play as children.
I want to sit on a rooftop
And watch people as they go about their day,
Then go to the market and ask about all the foods
I have never seen before.
I want to hear about the biggest fish
That a fisherman ever caught
And the look on his face
When he pulled it out of the water.
I want to wander through a town,
Get caught by the rain,
And take shelter in a restaurant
That I never would have tried otherwise.
I want to learn about the northern lights
From the people who see them all the time
And find out if they look for shapes in them
Like I look for shapes in the clouds.
A reader dreams a thousand lives,
But a traveler lives a thousand dreams.

Reflection from a Red Roof

I opened the window
To the steep red roof
That dangles like an unsteady cliff
Over the barren garden.
The ground was almost
Sand and the bushes
Were sparse.
The clouds flew away
And the stars peaked through,
So I sat on the cold
Cement windowsill
And studied the sky.
The wind had died
And the clock tower stopped,
So, in the still silence,
I measured the universe
And calculated that I
Couldn’t make a dent,
But I’m rooting for mankind.
Maybe we’ll keep going forward
Until we beat the odds that we created.

Road Trip

Let’s find a road
That never ends
And find which ways
It curves and bends.
We’ll watch the meadows
Turn to towers
And trace the sidewalks
Lined with flowers.
We’ll pass the forests,
Rich, warm green,
And the biggest mansions
We’ve ever seen.
We’ll dream of indoor pools,
A stone fireplace,
And works of Monet
To fill the space.
Then we’ll drive on
Along a river
And roll up the windows
As we begin to shiver.
We’ll turn the radio off
As the streetlights go on
And fill the silence with a promise
To drive again at dawn.