I cannot remember the scent of figs in the bright citrus of an Alexandrine morning Or  pale yellow grasses that once carried a baby on a river Or apricots that tasted like the first prayer on a foreign shore after the long voyage Or the sound of wild seabirds, wings outstretched  in the early morning… Read More Grief Is A Nomad

In the lilac of an Irish morning White swans return to shore In the swirl and eddies of the coastal inlets Sea grasses and baby crabs, too soft for shells  Hover between the salt waters and the fresh waters It is a hidden place, a glommering between the twilight and the deep lights These places … Read More Wild White Swans on an Irish Morning

If I could turn your walls into stained glass,  I would show you how beautiful you are, Even when you cannot see it, I can. My friend, who is afraid to speak, to smile How can it be that I can see your beauty from a thousand miles away Scented with lilacs, brushed with pollen… Read More A Poem for the One Who Thinks of Suicide

here are many languages – a language of words and text, of sound and presence, but beneath that there is a language of emotion and senses of sacred and profane, of tone and vibration the way bees dance in the summer light dusted with pollen intoxicated by the scent of flowers. yet another layer deeper… Read More languages

I know your face in all the snow that falls in Siberia I know your breathe in the sound of jasmine growing In willow leaves, in elements too rare to name I know your eyes when the sun strikes the sea when cranes twist the air into eddies, swirls It is unknown to you, that… Read More Islands in Green Water