Lady of the Brook


This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song.


The lady of the brook
Sees the moon—he creeps above,
Dancing on her surface.
O! what could it be but love?

The lady of the brook
Waits each night for his return,
Never knowing that for her
His heart will never yearn.

Life & Flowers


I stepped out today to find all of my flowers had bloomed.

Gathering some into a vase, I realized why it’s important to wait for certain things—and to appreciate what’s going on during the wait, even in moments when it seems no change is happening.

The flowers are stunning, aren’t they? If I had rushed them, if I had not waited out the long hot summer, if I had not endured August weeks of dryness during which no flowers grew—I would not have gathered so many colors today.

The cliche is true: the best things are worth the wait, every moment of it.

The Old, Grieving Garden


Wildflowers spring to life where they will
As, above, the sun sets on my sorrow.
I didn’t think that I had tears to cry still.
This sadness will last well into the morrow.
The flashes of blue and dots of white
Dancing in patches of summer dirt
Nod sympathetically to my plight,
As if they could comprehend my hurt.
A day will soon come to bid them farewell
When they bow their heads in graceful death;
Not yet!—I have secrets yet to tell,
But cannot catch my breath.
Butterfly, flit from leaf to leaf,
Sending my message to heaven’s door.
Meanwhile, I’ll make peace with my grief,
Here on the cold stone floor.

A Night of Mist and Questioning


I walk in mist
One chilly night,
When sorrow-clouds
Eclipse the light.
They fill my lungs
In every breath
With loaded air
Tasting of death.

The street lights wonder,
“Who is she?”—
They’ve never seen
The likes of me.
Behind their thick
Church-veil of cloud,
The stars, too, gossip—
Not aloud.

The cobblestones
Beneath my feet
Send questions up
And down the street;
Yet through it all,
I pay no mind.
I walk in mist;
They stay behind.