He cut the bangs too short

A snip or two,
a conscious decision to prune
that went too far,
and suddenly the veil's pulled back --
too high! too high! --

And there it is, exposed:
the forehead I inherited,
and all the fear and distaste
come tumbling in,
the memories,
the belief in my own
unloveability
because she'd not been loved,
and couldn't love in turn.



I pull, and pull,
and still the hairs
will only grow at their usual pace.

I wish I could resist
the tug of the mirror,
but everywhere I turn,
there's her reflection --
that high bright moon,
trapped between the branches --
and I keep looking, a hungry child;
keep hoping:
does she love me yet?
Does she love me yet?

A Blessing for the Snowbound

I'm thinking this morning 
of all those who are snowbound, 
who struggle to open their doors, 
who trudge through hip-deep drifts
to feed their livestock and gather wood,
who shiver in the cold
and wait for power to return. 

May winter's chill 
be soon relieved, 
may the beauty of the snow 
feed their hungry souls, 
and may the promise of spring 
keep them warm til it arrives...

From agitation to peace and back again

So many times
I've climbed and then descended
the steps from agitation
to peace and back again,
I'm wearing down
that hard smooth surface.
Soon, I hope,
it'll be an easy slide --
just close my eyes and know
I've only to extend a toe
and all the deep
will come rushing back...
But 'til then it'll still be work,
a concentrated effort,
like learning to drive a stick;
perfecting that clutch/accelerator action;


learning when to lift
and when to lower,
when to drop into a slower gear
and when to stop, get out,
get off the bus and smell the blooming flowers.