In her treehouse the light pours across the cut camellias
and mug of peppermint tea,
steam tendrils rising against a periwinkle sky

The ancient typewriter sits on the shelf keeping guard
over all the books, so many words drawn in wise tenderness
by writers before

She arranges the rocks and the miniature roses on the antique desk,
decides against music so she can sip quiet sunlight with her tea

Three little ones and her love unveiled this room
on the occasion of her birthday eve,
at the end of two journals,
when snow blank pages greeted her

She’d only just said goodbye to her word-loving people,
hugged them long round necks and shoulders,
swallowed the timbre of their voices and smiles,
whispered prayers and thanks

She returned to the house thirty minutes before her family,
caught sight of a few balloons and streamers and stayed put,
so as not to spoil a surprise

The four of them pulled up with auntie, her sister,
fresh off the airplane,
and then came tumbling through the door,
not a moment too soon

She gulped it down, every touch that said
I see you and love you
and savored joyous folds of the full day after

Now when it is time to write,
instead of down, she walks up stairs
to where it’s warm,
and her eyes hold branches and sky,
and she hears the birds like friends

She begins to unwind inky strands
onto the blank page,
choosing the beginnings of all she’ll weave
into this new nest


Oh, the conference and oh, my 40th birthday and oh, so much! It does seem that poetry sometimes helps me begin to find my way when I can’t capture all the words. And there are so many words. All the celebrations with my most dear family and friends, time two weekends ago with precious high school girlfriends and 24 hours this last weekend with some of my treasured writing people has left me so full. I am walking around awe-filled and grateful, joyously muttering, “All IS grace.”

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