he sits on a rock
outside a rock-hewn church
dehydrated
lips cracked and bleeding

he hallucinates
images of
a baptized Jesus
walking toward him
with a smile
and open arms

he awakes, puzzled 
to find coffee plants
thriving
when his
own heart
struggles
just to beat

he imagines 
another boy
far away
frightened
from the danger
of plastic straws and 
slow internet load times

he dreams of
being one of
the forty percent 
to have clean 
drinking water
in the Horn
of Africa

Moon beams on water gleam 
Stars and comets portend hope
Sunshine and shadow dreams 
Earth's blessings fill human needs.

Air and sky with wispy clouds 
Inspire all young and old to note 
Care and share and even dare
Pray for Peace and World Harmony.

Disputes and land and even seas
Be deemed more equally shared 
Til nomads find their place for home
And be no more doomed to roam. 

Borders freely boundaries loosen
So all may search roots to find 
 And fill their needs and  dreams 
That securely to Earth they bind

The leaves barely stir
in the almost-wind of spring in Madrid, 
a watery sun bathing balconies in light.

Part of me wants to return home
to Chicago, to get on 
with my static life, to sit in a window 
waiting for April, to watch the scudding 
clouds race across a purpled sky.

Another part of me will miss the nephew
I leave back in Spain. He calls me 
"Auntie Da," his baby voice settling 
into my memory like a handful of garbanzos, 
his preferred culinary delicacy.

For three weeks I have fed him
taffy-colored beans for dinner, along with
chunks of chicken or salmon, perused 
"Goodnight, Moon" for the nth time, 
failing to quell his bedtime terrors. 

We must part now, remembering
how we rose together in the morning,
he painting his face with scrambled eggs 
before going out to meet the world,
I pushing the stroller uphill 
to the blue door of the nursery.

At five o'clock I collect him for a romp 
in the park and a snack of garbanzos,
a rosary of unknown prayers clutched 
in his baby hands, a string of broken miracles 
to be savored, one by one.


(First published in After Hours)

If someone closes
with "Love Ya!"
        
Word smiths
consider the phrase
casual and colloquial
    
And less intent
than an emotional
"I Love You"    
    
However, doesn't
everyone appreciate
an expression of love 
    
Even if it's
a laid back idiom
but right on track?

Through the window of a bus
I glimpsed an egret
lovely
as its legs are long,
shyly
and hungrily looking down. 
What song
raised its head,
called its wings
towards the sun? 

An egret
stands sentinel
on the shore
of a misty channel,
guiding my eyes
towards open water
and my heart
towards future travel. 

After dinner
at the water's edge
we saw an egret. 
My friend said
it walks "like an Egyptian," 
thrusting
first head, then heart
in a rippling motion 
like the dark water
that takes it in.

I have heard wise people say
if you see the same animal
four times on a journey
it is your power animal. 
I don't claim
to know what that means
but I am four egrets away
from home.

Anne could knit one heck of a sweater,
pink and purple and teal zig-zags,
a little loose at the neckline;
I own it now,
don it on the coldest days.
I can almost sense her fingers in the weave,
the warm imprint of her body.

There are so few photos of her,
no grave to visit, no urn of ashes,
nor tree planted in her honor,
no memorial service pamphlet--
she wanted none of that.

Instead, she is knitted into my life,
her gifts appearing with regularity:
the butterfly pin from Mexico,
a stained recipe for jelly tots,
the commercial grade measuring spoons,
her advice to avoid buying
those dowdy print dresses.

Her loss defies convention,
refuses to sit in its seat,
stay in the cupboard,
be silent.

So like her.


(Originally published in Coneflower
Café, Spring, 2024.

Hot orange flame flew up 
melting lead and ancient trees
breaking hearts of Paris.

For eight hundred years
old oaks from vanished forests
served as roof timbers

but no longer able to withstand
the fires of hell, crumbled
to charred matchsticks, as

Our Lady's backbone,
the vulnerable ridge pole,
tumbled into the holy nave.

                    * * *

A thin white thread 
of smoke rising at the Vatican
signals something new.

This disastrous stream of white smoke,
which roared rapidly to black
then to tongues of fire,

called out every craftsman
from the woodwork, their myriad of skills
rebuilding one great Cathedral,

signaling Our Lady's glory.

was short
very stout
with biceps 
most men 
would die for
large hands
that could carry 
heavy loads,
and a child
was able
to wipe tears
braid hair
knead bread dough
swing a mop 
work two jobs.
her large feet
wore big shoes that
carried her through
all the weary times
she stood as
an immigrant
stoic, strong, proud