Slow Wind

Clouds roll in
over Santa Fe valley;
It is mid-afternoon. A
slow wind begins in
the trees and I
imagine it will grow.
By midnight the wind whistles,
pushes hard through
bare branches, carrying the
clouds swiftly across
the dark valley, leaving
exposed the bare night
sky, full of bright stars
and hollow moon.


It could have been so easy
To fall back
Into his arms
To find my place
In his bed again
To find the empty space
Between his sheets.

It could have been so easy
To lose myself,
Forget myself

It could have been so easy
To fall away from life
And into my dark.

But I chose light
And from here
I see you

The Least

At least the bright sun
reflects off red clay
mountains at sunset
and the blue sky fills
slow with purple clouds
rolling peacefully across the valley.

At least the air
is crisp with meaning
and God echoes in the
fast wind, the cold air.

At least I am here
amongst the cacti and
the hills, the blue sky
fading quietly to night.


The inky blue of
Early March. Six
O’clock in north
Brooklyn and
I am suddenly

In the distance the
Yellow glow of
Manhattan filters
Through the rooftops
Of our lovely Brooklyn,
Low buildings give
Way to rich night and
A full moon rises
Over Fulton Street.

We are a slip of land
Clinging fast to
Shore, so easy to
Disconnect, float
Quietly out to sea.
So easy, all of us,
Quietly afloat in
Open waters, deep
Atlantic echoing

Would I find you
Amongst the wreckage?
After splitting from this
Heavy motherland
Would you be there
In the orange light of
Dusk, or under the
Silent moon?

No. I am alone
In endless blue;
Empty horizon;
Edge of life;
Nothing before me
But the glow.


I spent three and a half days in the crisp California air, under bright blue skies, surrounded by palm trees and traffic jams. It is strange and gritty and beautiful. Not New York at all. The city sprawls, stretching its arms wide, winding along the coast, into the mountains and valleys and falling fast into the wide sea.

Monday night we took Pacific Coast Highway north out of Santa Monica toward Malibu. Music from high school, from road trips and summers in New Jersey echoed loud from our over-amped speakers. The car dipped around a corner and the earth opened, exposing wide beaches and jagged cliffs.

I remembered Cape Town and my heart broke. The memory of African coastline spilling into the deep Atlantic; of sunsets overlooking the Cape and Table Mountain rising above us, looming in the night. Suddenly I felt full of sun and open air, the mountains rising toward heaven and crashing down into the depths of the earth, cascading beneath the thundering waves of the Pacific. “It looks just like South Africa…” My words choked in my mouth, my eyes tearing up without warning.

I am in love with that land, those ancient mountains, the rolling terrain; the folds of the earth centuries old, the trees bending with the wind, buckling under the weight of a Noreaster, reaching longingly for the sun.


I do remember Atlanta,
the muddy, clay banks
of the Chattahoochee,
riding my bike along its shores
calling to men
carved in stone
on horseback
across the mountainsides.

I marched the cold streets
in January, held my breath
on stage at Ebenezer Baptist,
cradling Coretta’s hand.

I caught tadpoles and
insects in springtime,
watched them struggle
towards freedom, confused
and panicked when
instinct failed.

Found solace in deep water,
honeysuckle and dark woods.

And swinging out over the pond
I wondered what it would
mean to let go, fall feet
first into murky water or
swing full force into
a strong oak on shore.

But always my feet
touched ground, clung
to the silty embankment,
heart open for more.

Santa Fe, Sunset

The sky was purple tonight
painted at sunset with deep
orange, flaming across
the open sky, reflecting
soft pink into the scattered
clouds. In the background,
the blue mountains rise
and fall, soft breathing
with the rotation of the Earth;
millennia come and gone
and still, the painted sky
as day recedes into
plum and indigo, bright
white orb of day gives
way to a brilliant horizon
scattered with color, streaked
across the wide open
and reflecting across us
the hills pink with remembrance.