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Half-Light / Embers

I. Half-Light I am a ghost in my own skin, a flicker between breaths, hanging on to the edge of a pill as if it were a cliff’s root, white-knuckled and ashamed. The night tastes of iron and static; my thoughts scatter like birds spooked from an empty field. I don’t want to live. But I don’t want to leave the few who still reach for me in the dark. Their care is a small, steady lantern. I see it through the fog and hate myself for dimming it. This body, this mind, wired to ache and unravel— it whispers quit . But something, a pulse, a memory, a thread of light keeps whispering stay . I don’t call it hope. I don’t call it healing. It’s just a ragged, trembling breath that keeps me here, a half-light for the half-living, waiting for a dawn I cannot yet imagine but haven’t quite let go. II. Embers And yet— beneath the ash, a coal still glows. Small as a heartbeat, but warm enough to thaw one fingertip at a time. The night does not last forever, even when it feels endless. It is stitched wi...
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No Borrowing from the Clock

The clock keeps the rules: no borrowing. No loopholes, no back-room deals, only this moment issued, stamped and undiscounted.   We all arrive with the same rulebook: hands move forward; minutes don’t reverse engineer; tomorrow won’t extend a line of credit.   Young hearts hear an echo of plenty. Age hears the tick as a metronome, steady as rain on sheet metal, counting out dances we’ll never learn.   You are not here, and still you measure me. Your afterimage sharpens the edges of noon, tilts the compass of my errands, whispers, choose what outlives you.   So I pay the hour in attention: one call I owe while voices still match, one refusal that guards what matters, one walk that teaches my lungs their names.   By dusk, the day is used, not kept, spent like breath on what deserves it. If another morning is minted for me, I’ll meet it with exact change:   no borrowing, only spending; no guarantees, only purpose; and the tender the clock accepts not money, not...
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The Cost of Becoming

I thought the leaving would happen all at once A single storm, a wave that crests and breaks And leaves behind a smooth, new shoreline Where only the brave remain.   But loss has patience. It lingers in empty chairs at family gatherings, In holiday cards that never come, In the sudden cold of a friend’s silence.   The price is more than paperwork Though there are days when my name is a line item On some bureaucrat’s form, My identity contingent on stamps and signatures, A scavenger hunt through offices and websites For the right letter, the right code, Proof that I belong to myself.   It is the ache of every sideways glance, The stinging echo of a once-loving voice Turned sharp or silent. It is waiting on hold, listening to bad music, Rehearsing explanations for the hundredth time, Trying to convince a stranger That my happiness is not a clerical error.   Yet, beneath the pile of rejections, Underneath the smud...
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Shared Ground

No one knew her name. Only the crime— Whispered like an incantation Until the crowd grew certain They had always despised her.   She knelt in the square, A hush before the jeering rose, Her heartbeat loud in the hollow Where dignity once lived.   No friend came. No kin stepped near. And when the first stone was lifted, She did not lift her head.   But someone stepped from the ring— A stranger whose silence Cut through their hunger for blame. He paused, as if he too Had been accused.   He said nothing, He did not protest her shame. Only set his hand Upon her bowed back, And lowered himself beside her Until their shadows blurred.   A murmur stirred— The question unspoken: Why would he risk being counted with her?     And in that moment, Her disgrace became shared ground— A quiet joining That no condemnation could unmake.   He did not stand again Until the crowd had found Some other spectacle to feed their hunger.   And when she rose, She rose n...
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You Saw Me Whole

In the storm of shouted hate, you stood — quiet, unwavering — not for reward, not for show, but because love called you there.   While laws were written to erase me, you learned to say my name like it had always been mine. You listened, even when it hurt.   I stood half-formed in my becoming, unsure, unseen, unclaimed, and still, you looked with steady eyes and said, “I see her.”   Before I knew what beauty meant, you reflected it back to me.   Your voice, a lantern in the dark. Your hand, extended when others pulled away. You asked nothing but dared everything. You chose to risk your peace for ours.   Ally is too small a word. You are kin by courage, family by firelight, a witness to truth in flesh and soul.   I walk freer because you stayed. I speak louder because you believed. I am whole because you saw me that way. For my sisters, Suzanne and Rachel,  who saw me whole before the world did. Your love gave me the courage to live as my whole self. ...
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Quiet Colors of the Call

We do not march with banners, no trumpets split the dawn; our anthem is a radio hiss, a grid ref softly drawn. We shoulder maps and questions, breathe cedar, sage, and rain; the mountains keep their secrets— we listen for a name. Hands rough with midnight searching trace hope along a ridge; headlamps paint brief constellations across a shadowed bridge. We learn the language of boot prints, the tremor of a bark; our compass is compassion that glows inside the dark. No laurels crown the finish, no medals seal our worth; the prize is quiet footfalls returning home to earth. So let the boardroom beckon— titles fade like fog at dawn; service is the humble spark that keeps the beacon on. Together we are signal fire, steady in the night: many hearts, one purpose— to guide the lost to light.   *The poem is dedicated to those who take up the call to save those they've never met. 
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Pages Still Unfolding

In the hush between the stacks, where whispered knowledge hums, we’ve watched you shelve bright visions, building kingdoms out of crumbs. You cataloged our questions, inked answers in the air, tucked hope into each margin— left fingerprints of care. Now the bookmark lifts, mid-chapter, and a brand-new story calls: a grander hall of learning with fresh corridors and walls. Go, trace those uncut pages, let possibility unfurl; bind dreams in sturdy covers for another eager world. Yet know that here—between these aisles— our memories still glow: late-night planning, laughter shelved where only colleagues know. We’ll keep those dog-eared moments, their comfort soft and worn, a well-loved, shared anthology we’ll open when we mourn. So turn the page with courage, write boldly, line by line; the lore you leave behind us makes every footnote shine. Our chapter’s last italics read: “Thank you—see you again,” for stories cross like constellations— and ours will meet...
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