Visible from space,
the world’s largest dam
measures more than seven football fields.
Constructed over generations,
the dam holds back run off
from Canada’s Birch Mountains.

Shaped in an arc,
the dam is composed
of connected arches.
Through brutal cold,
blizzards of snow,
the force of gravity,
the dam remains.

In 1978,
beavers returned
to a patch of woods
in Fairfax, Virginia.
Setting to work,
the builders began
to shape a wetland.

Today’s massive ecosystem
owes it origins
to those first beavers —
red-shouldered hawks, barred owls,
coyote, fox,
tree frogs, ribbon snakes,
marbled salamanders,
belted kingfisher,
yellow crowned night herons.

This morning
I watched a lone beaver
leave his lodge,
floating on the surface
of a warming pond.

Sixty degrees
appears tempting,
even for a nocturnal creature.

Evidence of spring
dots the margins of the wetland —
robins, frogs,
and freshly felled trees.

Soon,
the beaver will be joined
by family members
who swam the pond
last spring,
ready to repair and renew.

Marsh awakening
A great horned owl nests above
As frogs trill hello

A haiku written after a walk at my local marsh. If you would like to here the sounds of the marsh this morning, click here.

My father hates L.A.
Growing up on Livonia Avenue,
Los Angeles was a place
of deficit for him —
little money,
a father lost at seventeen,
a strict Jewish upbringing,
a family circle
limited by the Holocaust.

On the other side of town,
my father tells the story,
a cousin was a hotel doorman
where Howard Hughes resided.
Hughes helped the cousin’s son
into medical school
when school after school
rejected the Jewish young man.
Success was serendipity.

For my father at seventeen,
long hours bagging at a grocery store
helped pay his family’s bills —
no Hughes or good luck story.

Instead,
he worked, studied, scrimped, saved
to pull himself
over the horizon of Los Angeles.
Discrimination, death, circumstance
marked this son of an immigrant’s path.

My father hates L.A.
But for me,
L.A. is a classroom
in which to learn
about overcoming.

The stove is off,
you can let go
your constricting grip on safety.
I forgive you
for continuing to carry the habit.
I forgive you
for holding a grudge grounded in hurt.
I forgive you
for hours spent worrying,
with no real power to change.
I forgive you
for wanting —
trying to fill a hole of murky origins.
I forgive you
for the hovering
masked as parental care.
I forgive you
for wondering if you are enough.
I forgive you,
I forgive you,
I forgive you.

*inspired by Dilruba Ahmed’s poem “Phase One”. In the poem, Ahmed repeats, in a flood, I forgive you — making a safe space for the acknowledgement of things that hide in the shadows for each of us.

Over winter break, my family was in New York City. Crowded with holiday revelers, New York is a wonder. On this trip, the universe threw me a moment, a connection.


Through the glowing windows,
The Strand bookstore looked packed.
Shoppers searching for gifts
to bestow on loved ones,
wrapped in tinsel and crinkly paper.

Biting cold
on a late December eve,
made the claustrophobic scene
almost inviting.

Skirting around strangers,
I settled at the staff favorites table –
books in a kaleidoscope of colors
stacked high in piles,
allowing shoppers to grab several titles
at once.

In my hand,
a hefty paperback offering tales from India.
“Remarkable!”
came a bubbly voice to my left.
Startled, I mumbled I heard great things.
“Have you tried this one?”
She held up a fast-paced thriller
I too had loved.
“Yes!” I exulted.
Reaching in front of her,
I scooped up another title
from the beach of books.
“Well, you must try this one.
History, family intrigue,
I know you will love it!”

We paused —
complete strangers,
now sharing treasures
with assured confidence,
we knew each other.

In the pause,
I could imagine the recipes we traded,
the afternoons spent watching our children play ball,
chatting in book club
or crying over a lost loved one.

We both grinned,
“Happy holidays”
as the universe tugged up back
into our own orbits,
each quietly contemplating
the possibilities.

For the past year or more, I have headed out in heat, rain, and freezing temperatures to spend time with birds. I am learning much about life, survival, beauty. Thus, I find myself writing more nature poems these days. Nature poems are often idyllic — lofty language offering peace, escape, a calm refuge. But some poems are frank, not shying from the natural order. In January, I saw two geese on a frozen pond I frequent — here is the encounter.

On a frigid January morning,
a flock of Canadian Geese
huddle on the icy marsh,
heads tucked in against the cold.

As the sun rises,
light settles on a goose
several yards away.

It is clear the goose
perished in the night.
Ebony head melding into the ice,
wings loose and low,
no life blood holding
the bird in check.
A gentle neck
bends with grace
across the frozen field.

Nature takes its course.
Geese are not promised eternity.
Perhaps a fox, coyote or eagle
will find a meal
and fortitude.

But
not yet,
for standing guard
by the fallen fowl
is love personfied.

Geese mate for life.
The ice-bound goose
did not die alone.
Instead nature reminds everyone within sight
we are cherished —
from the tiniest warbler
to the majestic goose
to the infinitely fallable human.

Yet,
a prayer should be offered
for the sentinel left behind —
loved
paired
lonely
carrying on mightily.

Note: if you love birds, here are a few great books to read:
Bird School by Adam Nicolson
What an Owl Knows and The Genius of Birds by Jennifer Ackerman
The Backyard Bird Chronicles by Amy Tan
H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald

Since my son was small
we have reveled in taking walks.
A flâneur by nature,
Nash has wandered the streets
of London, Chicago, Porto
New York, Montreal, Alexandria
and more.

Together
we have journeyed through
wood and bog,
city and country,
canal path and mountain trail.

He is my favorite walking companion,
always ready with a funny story,
intriguing fact or
simply quiet company.

Yesterday
we met to walk our three dogs.
His Cooper elated
to see half siblings,
Max and Georgia.

We walked along a nature trail
watching ospreys dip,
carrying off fish in tight talons.
Spring air
added a note of hopefulness
on a Sunday afternoon.

As March draws to a close,
I brim with thankfulness —
for Nash, his wife Claire, the pups,
health enough to walk,
a happy marriage,
a new home,
and…
the company of slice of life writers
who make March a stellar month.

I sent a dispatch,
a quiet missive.
The epistle
contained every letter
needed for communication.
I must report
it was difficult to give the lowdown
without sharing the good tidings.

*The last word of every line is a synonym for dispatch.