Over night a measure of snow. Song birds fluffed and peckish in a chill wind. Curls of snow blow off the garage roof, tuning the chimes.
I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
Accept what comes from silence./
Make the best you can of it./
Of the little words that come/
out of the silence, like prayers/
prayed back to the one who prays/
make a poem that does not disturb/
the silence from which it came.