Love, Lena

 He looked straight ahead and said,
"maybe you won't feel anything,
until you reach the big moments
that used to be filled with her presence.
Like Christmas and birthdays,
Easter, and Mother's Day."
I stared out the window,
as we drove down the highway,
headed for safety,
headed for a hiding place.
And though I'd asked him
a different question,
I knew his answer was the right one,
and the wisest words I'd been offered thence far.
Three months later,
those words stay completely true,
as the lights are up,
the stockings hung,
and I look for something that will never,
ever, be under any tree.

Merry Christmas, momma.

This Is Self-Refuting

I haven't written 
anything of importance. 
Nothing delicate, 
nothing whimsical 
nothing real 
in weeks. 
And tonight, 
to fill this space, 
to stop its idleness, 
I force something out. 
I am dry. 
Barren, like a woman 
who is unable to birth 
something precious. 
And it's not for a lack of trying, 
it's not because I have no 
living inspirations, 
no painful heart cries, 
or past ghosts, 
it's just that my mind
and my heart
and my fingers 
are all at odds. 


I wonder, 
if I've ever written anything of consequence,
or just wasted my time?