It seems a new era
has dawned
for my writing -
a time of consideration
even for the simple practice poems

"I want to dance
at the tips of your fingers,
like a cigarette,"
entwining in and out
like a shadow or scarf -
falling and rising
with your own rhythm -
and once I've learned your dance,
I'll take your hand
and teach you mine.

Dance pushes itself
out of my bones
as much as the ink
that is my blood
threatens to break through
my all-too-mortal skin

Searching for words
to put together
in order
but not wanting to,
because this is not just mine,
and it is a fledgling
I refuse to pinion
with talking too much.
Silence isn't awkward,
but comfortable,
a mon avis anyway

Encircled,
defended,
side pressed to side,
grounded
in a moment of
joy

Keep calling me.
Please.
Don't let this song fade
When depart school.
I want it to be real;
I want it to be true.
I want something
As healthy as this parish
To keep me company,
To draw me forward,
So that I know it is You.
Please keep singing,
Even though I will not
Change my key this spring.

There are stars in the sky
begging to be named
and joy bubbling up out of me
that I can't quite get the right words
to express when I want them.