riding on a snowflake

Riding on a snowflake 

How serendipitous that we arrived just in time to catch a ride on a crystalline snowflake. As we settled in on our wintery dew drop, we floated like swimmers on their backs in a salty lake.  More falling droplets surrounded us, winter nectar, whispers from the sky, pure white luminous cold. Soft feathery tickles on our skin, kissed by the universe, cascading through the air. A single stitch in a veil of white. The ice-covered trees reaching for us as we landed in a powdery pile on a milky sea. All we could feel in the stillness were our heartbeats pulsing. All we could see was downy falling from above, and the silky virgin of fallen snow. We watched the wind loosen her robe and dance its designs across the undisturbed fluffiness that had become the midwestern plain. 

I wrote this poem in response to a prompt suggesting that I write a postcard about a fantastical adventure. It was kinda fun!

her rolling pin

her rolling pin

standing there, in the kitchen – 
where everything is worn 
to the point it becomes shiny again
from all the contact and touching over time

this kitchen – 
where she’s stood hundreds -
no thousands - of times before 
where the floor holds her feet
laced up into shoes like a corset
holding everything together

wearing her apron – 
the one with the lone flower rising
toward a sun and blanketed 
in a bed of spring grass – 
its ties wrapped around her waist 
like a child’s hands pressing into clay

removing the rolling pin from the drawer
grabbing it with 
the one remaining handle
that fits her hand like a glove

reaching into the flour canister
massaging the snowy powder onto the wood
like bathing a child in soapy water 
her palm pressing, her fingers grazing

pushing the powdered pin 
onto the moist mound of dough
beginning to roll, back and forth, 
steady glides, a rhythmic and 
somehow comforting movement, 
like dancing to her favorite song, 
slow and sanguine  

she kneads the dough like a prayer, 
grasping and pushing away
grasping for all she dreamed her life could be
then pushing away all that life has given her

where the journey leads


where the journey leads

a fine yellow powder
moves silently as dust
reaching from plants
overflowing with life
fearless and free
dancing with the wind
to blades of grass
flowers in the garden
water resting in the birdbath
where the bees and birds wear it
to places of new possibility
the filmy elixir knows not
where the journey leads
yet opens itself to what might be

For the past several weekends – it’s spring in Iowa! – I’ve been sweeping a coating of yellow dust from our back deck and front porch. The purpose of this magic powder inspired my poem. As I sat staring into the line of spruces in my back yard, the idea for the poem began to take shape, and then the words flowed to my journal. After a little massaging, the work felt complete.

When you look around, what inspires and amazes you?


* I took this photo of buds on the spruce tree in my front yard. Much of the pollen in our yard comes from the dozen spruce trees that line our property. I was amazed at the beautiful red color – in 18 years, I’d never noticed the cones move through an early phase of being this this lovely color.