After Emily Dickinson’s death,
her sister Lavinia discovered
more than 1800 poems
among her things.

Publishing a scant
ten poems anonymously
in life,
Dickinson had poems
pouring from her pen,
seeping through her pores.

While adult Emily Dickinson
rarely left her family home,
she wrote constantly.

Thousands of letters,
bits of poetry
on scraps of paper,
corners of envelopes,
stuffed in pockets.

Dickinson wrote
of nature,
love,
death,
life,
hope.

Quietly working
in her corner of Amherst,
Dickinson lived a life of letters —
in her head.

The question
remains…
what waits
percolating
in your head?

Yesterday
the rain
kept me company.

The drive
a long haul —
Virginia to Massachusetts.

At times she was moody,
shifting from tender
to raging.

Further north,
she greeted me
with fat dumplings
of wet snow.

Arriving at the Old Mill Inn,
I heard her gentle welcome
patter on the window,
dance on the aged wooden planks.

I was thankful for the company.

Eating around the world,
I find culinary constants.

Flatbreads, Mexican tortillas,
Ethiopian injera,
Taiwanese scallion pancakes,
Pakistani naan.

Noodles almost everywhere.
Hand-torn,
dumpling tender,
kneading on a wooden board,
just the right chew.

Some things really are
universal.

*This found poem comes from an article in Cristopher Kimball’s Milk Street Magazine.

When I was small
I marveled at a notion —
simply sitting in a car
I could be transported
from one place
to another.

The wizardry
of human invention
seemed to know
no bounds.

As I grew,
the wonder continued.
Windows sliding up and down
as if by magic,
rear doors opening and closing
with the touch of a finger,
side mirrors defogging
in an instant.

This morning
the March air blew cold.
I climbed into my magical moving machine
to the innovation
of warm seats and improbably,
a heated steering wheel.

It seems
we humans will continue
to insulate ourselves
in comfort
against the inevitability
of our short time on the planet.

The boy’s face says it all —
a difficult day for a gentle boy.
A reprimand in class
not easily shouldered,
he does his best to keep his cup of tears
from overflowing.

I am sure he is home now
chatting with his mother,
searching for his cat,
eating dinner.

Yet,
my heart still hurts
knowing days can be hard
for the genuine-hearted.

Over time,
life will build callouses,
layers of thickened skin
to guard the heart.

Such a shame
the world does not value
tenderness
in the same way it honors
toughness.

Delicate branches
sway in the warm evening breeze,
while we enjoy sleep
cherry blossoms dance gently
before a grateful still moon.

This poem is written as a tanka in the Japanese haiku tradition. The line count is five, seven, five, seven, seven. Thank you Irene Latham and Charles Waters for the form idea!

I have decided to live abroad, where languages flow
and one learns to do with less, waking in the morning
to wander a country lane, stopping to greet the
flora and fauna. Revelation resides in the hills
just waiting for me to slow down long enough
to open my heart, soak in the wisdom.

Of course for now, I want to stay put
savor life where I am, appreciate the small moments.

Do you follow?

• modeled after Mary Oliver’s poem, “I Have Decided” in her book, A Thousand Mornings

Don’t forget to capitalize.
You need a comma here.
Reword to avoid confusion.

But,
more importantly —
you are brave.

Here you are
showing up
with each letter on the page.

Writing into existence
your view
on the question.

Never confuse
gentle reminders
with judgement.

Remember,
I see you —
and you are brave.

My mother
finds her roots in
the Scottish moors,
the English lake district.

My father’s
ancestors hail from
Russia, Austria,
Poland.

No blood flows
through my veins
tinged by the waters
of the river Shannon.

Yet,
Ireland has won my heart.

Walking St. Stephen’s Green;
sharing a pint
at the Palace Bar;
reading Yeats, Joyce,
Behan, O’Brien
at the MoLI;
roaming the blustery
shore of Galway;
bowing my head
to honor those lost
in Belfast.

Today,
I ate Irish soda bread
with Kerry butter
and took my heart back
to the green shores
of Ireland.

“My flight’s on time!”

Four states and 700 miles away,
my husband’s voice
rises through the line.

“I’ll be there waiting!

Married for thirty-three years,
the buzz of anticipation
still shimmers.

A quiet morning
walking the dogs,
reading essays,
sipping coffee,
turns technicolor.

Over lunch
at our local watering hole,
we discuss sports,
family, travel ahead.
Ordinary conversations
elevated by the absence.

As humans,
we each walk the world
on our own map.
How delicious,
how lucky,
when maps align.