May the desert lavender, poppy, marigold buds,
studded along the trails of Windgate pass,
open their mouths to a gentle rain
then burst into blossom
just for you.
Let it be a merciful Spring.
When the McDowell mountains sing
ancient songs of promise,
may your heart remain unbroken.
May every street and avenue of this city
lead you to blessings of good health.
And when you stand near the banks
of the Salt River,
with only the humming cicadas
to keep you company and
the Sweet Acacia trees to bear witness,
may this be a singular moment
of peace.
Let it be so, and
if and when
you dare to look up at a moonless night sky,
may a thousand flickering stars
overwhelm you.
May you see in the dazzle of white lights
the faces of everyone you’ve ever loved and lost.
May they guide you to a better life—
let it be so.

                The world is a beautiful place 
                                                           to be born into 
if you don’t mind happiness 
                                             not always being 
                                                                        so very much fun 
       if you don’t mind a touch of hell
                                                       now and then
                just when everything is fine
                                                             because even in heaven
                                they don’t sing 
                                                        all the time

             The world is a beautiful place
                                                           to be born into
       if you don’t mind some people dying
                                                                  all the time
                        or maybe only starving
                                                           some of the time
                 which isn’t half so bad
                                                      if it isn’t you

      Oh the world is a beautiful place
                                                          to be born into
               if you don’t much mind
                                                   a few dead minds
                    in the higher places
                                                    or a bomb or two
                            now and then
                                                  in your upturned faces
         or such other improprieties
                                                    as our Name Brand society
                                  is prey to
                                              with its men of distinction
             and its men of extinction
                                                   and its priests
                         and other patrolmen
                                                         and its various segregations
         and congressional investigations
                                                             and other constipations
                        that our fool flesh
                                                     is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all
                                                           for a lot of such things as
         making the fun scene
                                                and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
                                         and singing low songs of having 
                                                                                      inspirations
and walking around 
                                looking at everything
                                                                  and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
                              and even thinking 
                                                         and kissing people and
     making babies and wearing pants
                                                         and waving hats and
                                     dancing
                                                and going swimming in rivers
                              on picnics
                                       in the middle of the summer
and just generally
                            ‘living it up’

Yes
   but then right in the middle of it
                                                    comes the smiling
                                                                                 mortician

                                           

Not because of the hours or the pay, which could be worse.
          Not because of my commute into this office park,
                    or that no one else appreciates that phrase as much as I do.

Not the dim unholy hum of energy-efficient lights,
          recycled air with hints of garlic and scorched wool,
                    the break room fridge with its mysterious stains, open bottle

of rosé no one will drink or claim. Not the thousand
          bloodless paper cuts, copier that jams in high humidity,
                    the legion e-mails labeled Urgent, their emoticons

and useless FYIs. Not the spreadsheets and reports
          that are assigned, written, revised and never spoken of.
                    Not the tedium of meetings at which nothing is discussed,

managers who barely learned my name before
          they disappeared. Not because of everything that doesn’t
                    function—water fountains, window blinds, the entire

marketing department. Not even because of office politics,
          the gossip and jockeying, spats over power we don’t have.
                    Because the work I love is what I spend the least time

doing. Because I jerk awake at 4:00 am, my fists
          already clenched, have stopped feeling concern for coworkers
                    upset by bad reviews, sick pets or family cancer.

Because every shift in policy makes my life slightly
          worse, and I can’t find the line between caring too much
                    and total apathy. Because ever since I started here

I’ve been assured things will improve, but I’m afraid
          that staying means becoming bitter and entrenched,
                    unhappy but unable to move on.

A downpour pounded the asphalt as I walked home
among legions of tiny ballerinas in a brief choreography.
Soon, I would be dry, sipping cocoa. I’d belong somewhere again.

I often sat cross-legged on the porch with books, listening to distant
laughter from above. Elm trees were ripe with other children, 
all with upper-arm strength and a bold insistence to claim the sky.

Afraid to climb, I was certain I’d be unable to make my way
back to earth. I learned to ride a bicycle, pedaling hard down 
our hill, then I’d lean into the wind, free yet still mostly alone.

My Brownie leader’s daughter formed her tight clique. I waited
for the day we’d fly up, when I’d accrue more merit badges
than friends, when I could abandon the shame of corrective shoes.

Mrs. Schneider taught the class the times tables and cursive.
For a quarter, we could purchase a green plastic ballpoint 
resembling a fountain pen, leaving pencils and erasers behind.

My fingers wrapped the pen and letters formed, fluid and full
of potential. Like tributaries. Like family. Words swift
as bike tires on hot pavement. No one but me, the wind, the dancing

rain, and burning sky, the region where all these poems were seeded.
How lonely and marvelous the gestation, beyond definition and logic,
beyond the lonely boundaries of the invisible.

if you have had 
           your midnights
   and they have drenched
       your barren guts
          with tears

 I sing you sunrise
        and love
and someone to touch

You are enough

Divinity flows in your fingertips
        with light so radiant
        every beat of your heart
a victory march
made of whole universes
        stitched by the hands of creation
        with flawless design
a prophecy You fulfill perfectly with every breath

        You

The sun wouldn’t shine the same without it
Creation is only waiting for You
                to smile back at it

Do you see it yet?

You are enough
        For the birds to sing about
        For the seeds to sprout about
        For the stars to shoot about

        Do you see it yet?

        Gardens in your speech
Fields of wildflowers in your prayers
        Lighthouses in your eyes
    No one else can see it for you

You have always been enough
You will always be enough

Your simple act of being is enough

            Do you see it yet?