If I didn't look closely
I might believe this story you tell
with your smooth pressed shirt
and carefully knotted tie
but I see the way you bite your lip
as you pull your hands
in and out of pockets
and I wonder:
why not put those hands here
come bite my lip instead?


You called me a poet
and I will carry that gift around
all day
like those little folded notes
I treasured
in school
passed by friends between classes
sharp creases in the paper
and lines of sparkling ink

How do we thank those who invite us to be more of who we are?

The First Hundred Days

A poet friend offered a challenge: Could I write 100 poems in 100 days? More than that: Would I share them with a group of strangers?

Some days words flew; other days I floundered. I kept writing. Almost three hundred poems later, I write every day.

You can do this, too.

It doesn't have to be good
or, rather, I don't have to be,
Mary said
as her geese flew toward
greener things