I Watch the Squirrels

I watch the squirrels
during page breaks
as the last
of day’s colors
follow the sun,
so subtly
slink away,

in silhouette now,
shockingly high in the pines,
three frolicking,
distracting me
from pains
and story line.

The scurrying subsides
as the chorus begins,
unified insects
and amphibians.

Another blood-thirsty buzz
in my ear,
but I’m mid poem
and the stars
are getting ready
to appear.

Excited for the evening chill
upon my Southern bare feet,
I hold my modest wine
to the laptop light
to check before I drink,

pajama bottoms on,
chair always reclined,
looking up,
obsessed with sky
and the divine.

Sunset, twilight,
stars, moon:
the only Friday-Night Lights
that can amuse this recluse.

The Condition

The thing about self-love
is the condition
that it be
unconditional.
I must be a friend
to myself
when I need
one the most

and remember
what makes me, me,
are not flaws,
and in the handling
of my wounds
after stumbling
must come
the greatest care
of all.

Pieces we can’t get back
and permanent scars
must simply become
part of the beauty
of the sculpture
of the heart.

Uneditingly Brave

What if
we didn’t edit
but left
everything
the way
in which
we were blessed
with it,
the highlights
disputably the
highs in light,
the shadows
lovingly interweaved,
the bridges
sometimes camouflaged
or only revealed
to the one
meant to
see;
what if the walk
is intentionally
neverending
with boardwalks
to deter us
from fully
exploring
the depths of
the offerings,
the possibilities
of meeting
the ones we are meant to
and the ones by chance,
and what if those
are unfathomably unravelable
in free will, fate, and
happen-
stance…?