Selected writing
A poem for the season
September comes quietly,with a softer skyand a different slant of light.
The ocean still carries summer,warm against the shore,but somewhere beyond methe maples are already thinking of red.
I was born in this month,between what is leavingand what is about to begin.
Perhaps that is whyI have always loved the in-between,the turning,the becoming,the small invitationto begin again.
Another year finds me here,still writing,still wondering,still stopping for birdsand beautiful skies,still believing there are storieswaiting beneath ordinary things.
I do not ask Septemberto slow down.
Only to walk beside me awhile.
There is so muchI still want to notice.
09/01/2026
You have seen her there. Thumb out. Smiling a weak smile. There were thousands of these girls across America in the 60's. I was one of them. These are the poems from that time of my life.
Lonely am I, on a winding road.Seeing only streaks of whitewith flying specks of black rounds.
Thumb out and head down,wondering who might be kind.
Holes in shoes, pack in ditch,spaced on where to go.
Seeing scampering mice, heading for home,the sun making patterns on their backs.
My thoughts heavy, stomach not full,hoping to find one so beautiful.
Lonely am I,Thumb out, sign in hand,watching the sun dance shadows on the sand.
Infinity beyond the stars of nowA child walks in the spirit of the futureLooking beyond the cloudsKicking stones with bruised feetThinking of the elders trying to defeat.
Hands in pocketsAsking for spare changeTrying to explainbut mind is detainedhearing a song from a traveling band.
Hands in pocketsdreaming of infinitybut not of pastAsking for spare changewalking too fast.
3/9/2025
I catch my reflection in the storefront glass,tilt my head, squint a little.For a second, I expect to seethe girl I used to be,the one who walked with a swing in her hips,laughed too loud,and wore heels without regretting it.
Instead, there’s this woman.Her eyes have a touch more wisdom,her laugh lines are well-earned,and her hips? Well, they have their own opinions now.
Just beyond the glass,a group of young women twirls past,all long legs, easy laughter,and that reckless glow of thinking time will never catch them.
I smile.I was them once.And one day, if they’re lucky,they’ll be me,standing here, watching,smiling at the way life turns full circle.
I give my reflection a little wink.She winks back.Still got it.
I walk on,not quite as fast as before,but with a swing and a rhythm all my own.
A poetry series · 4/2026
In this poetry series, I explore the quiet turning points that have shaped my life as a writer. For years, I lived among unfinished pages and forgotten notebooks, not yet recognizing that I was approaching a threshold. Publishing my first book marked a subtle but irreversible shift, one that transformed writing from private habit into a living presence. My characters began to feel like companions, and language itself took on a deeper urgency. Now, writing from later in life, I find not a closing, but a renewal, an energy that resists the idea of ending and continues to gather strength.
I
Winter lingered in my drawers,stacks of yellowed pages,script fading into memory,journals holding small storiesI had already forgotten.
They waited without asking,quiet witnesses,corners softened by yearsI did not think to count.
I called it habit,this keeping of almosts,this tending of sentencesthat refused to stand upright.
Outside, the trees rehearsed greenbut did not commit.
Inside, time settled into paper,and in my sixty-eighth year,the pages, at last,became part of me.
I did not knowI was leaning toward a threshold,that even stillnesscan gather speed.
II
It did not arrive like thunder.No sky split,no choir rising from the rafters,only pages brought into line,glue set along the seam,paper gathered beneath a coverand held.
A small, audible clicksomewhere in the bones of things.
I turned it over in my hands.The weight was ordinary.The paper smelled faintlyof ink and dust and travel.
My name,no longer practice,stood without apologyon a spine.
I traced the letters once,as though they belongedto someone I had knownfor many years.
That was all.
No door flung open.No crowd waiting beyond it.
Only the quiet certaintythat I had crossed.
The threshold was now behind me.
III
The house grew crowdedwithout adding walls.
They came quietly,the ones I had made,pulling chairs to the table,finishing my sentences,aging beside me.
I learned their habits.One prefers dusk,another insists on rain.Some arrive carrying sorrow.Others leave laughterin the corners of rooms.
Paper multiplied like weather.Stories gathered on shelves,in drawers,beside the bed.
The seasons changedwithout consulting me.Spring no longer asked.It entered.
Even silence changed its posture,sat closer,as if it knew my namewas no longer mine alone.
IV
They said seasons turn toward rest,that autumn knowswhen to loosen its grip.
But something in memisread the instruction.
Roots went deeper, not quieter.Branches kept their argumentswith the sky.
I have become unreasonablewith time,stacking new pageson years meant to settle.
The characters still arrive,unannounced as weather,calling me back to the desklike kin who refuse distance.
There is a rumor of endingI do not believe.
Lookhow the leaves burn brighterjust before they fall.
Lookhow I do not fall.
