My mother said the other day that what I want in love

Is something quite ridiculous and not in Heav’n above.

She said that if I list too much the things I want in him

Then fate will slap me in the face, and negate ev’ry dense whim.

I’d like him dark with big black eyes and tan that makes me swoon

And if he had thick eyelashes I’d want to see him soon.

He must be at least six feet tall with burly shoulders too

Be good with kids, not pick his nose, and flirty girls he rue.

His teeth are straight and white and bright as any star above

If all these things he has and more he’s sure to win my love.

But, says my sweet mother dear, fate is a mean old thing.

It’s sure to take all that I want and with a smile wring.

Forget the “dark,” he’ll be so light the sun won’t shine no more.

His light blue eyes and sandy hair will make my poor heart sore.

He’ll probably be a midget, maybe shorter than myself

And then Our child shall, in a word, be called by all an elf.

His shoulders won’t be much to see, his teeth look like a fence

The kind that lies around a home, it doesn’t make no sense.

He’ll hate all kids and make them cringe, he’ll flirt with all my friends

And even when he picks his nose our love will never end.

I might as well eat all I want so I can get real fat

Who needs a man? I have my cake, and one big hairy cat.




It’s like the sea missing the desert;
The moon kissing the sun;
The priest looking after the heathen.

It’s like my heart pumping ice;
trees shedding blood;
clouds dripping leaves.

Like snow in July;
Flowers in December;
Harvest in March.

It’s like black seeing color;
Guitars singing vision;
Mouths hearing sound.

Like life loving death;
Like water begging for fire;
Like You loving me.


What would the mother tell her daughter

If she knew she wouldn’t make it home

That night?

What would the husband say to his wife

If he knew he’d never come back

Across the sea?

What would the teenager tell his brother

If he knew they’d never come

Face to face again?

What would you tell me

If you knew the next time you saw me

I’d be in a wooden box, surrounded by flowers?

Everyone acts like they’ll be around tomorrow.

But the funny thing about life is:

We were never granted we’d survive yesterday;

God didn’t promise we’d get through today;

And who knows if you’ll wake up tomorrow.



Questions are powerful.

I remember a long time ago,
When the world was just beginning to collapse into darkness,
I loved a boy
And the boy loved me.
My brother once asked him,
“When you see my sister when you’re
Old and kissed by Time
Maybe in the grocery store
Or a parking lot,
After living two lives separately–
What will you say?”
My cheeks grabbed buckets of embarrassment,
And the boy’s eyes widened.

Impressions are powerful.

We’ve lived two separate lives.
Our tales were never woven together
By the Maker of Fabrics.
We didn’t see each other for years
Upon years
Upon years.
But we’d made lasting impressions
On one another.
He softened my edges,
Made me care for those around me;
Revived the optimistic spirit
That had been torn
So raggedly.
I’d changed his sense of humor,
Challenged him to grow up a little;
Made him realize his goals were worth fighting for.
We carried those hints of each other
For the rest of our lives.
We molded each other
Into that which our future spouses
Fell in love with.

Reunions are powerful.

I remembered what my brother had said,
Never forgot how the boy’s eyes widened
And my own cheeks charred the atmosphere around them.
Weeks, months, year passed.
And I saw the boy
Now Old and kissed by Time
In the grocery store,
After living two lives separately–
Except he wasn’t a boy anymore.
All that echoed in my ears was
My brother asking him,
“What will you say?”
I stared at him,
He stared at me.
So much had changed,
But so much more had stayed the same.
He licked his peeling lips.
I fixed a tendril of my white hair.
He opened his mouth.
I held my shopping cart close.
His words were the balm
To my aching chest.
His eyes swelled.
Tears fled both our eyes.
We were home.
“Hi, Daisy.”

Moments are powerful.

The flowers were fresh
And white.
I was the last one there.
The boy who dared me to try,
Dared me to believe in shares of hope–
He was gone.
But although our threads
Were never sewn together all the way
We’d been tangled together
At last
For the end.
We picked up right where we’d left off;
It was as if nothing had ever changed.
I’d never left him,
He’d never left me.
There was never any regret.
Our omniscient Tailor had pulled us apart
Because He knew best.
But when the light pulled me into Heaven–
As I saw the face of my King–
It was the boy who helped greet me.
I forgot the earth
And sorrow
And regrets
As glory
And the boy who taught me how to be
All laid before me
In powerful glory.

God is powerful.


Just a

Dumb, gray polka-dot sock–

Alone, without a match.

Unraveled and dirty,

I sit, unworn.



Under a pile of socks.

They are pairs.

They are matches.

But not me.

Until someone takes me out of

My comfort zone.

Out of the bin,

Out of the box.

I’m lost afraid.

But nothing is different, really.

I am still alone.

But then

I am thrown into a bin of Towels and clothes.

I feel even more unwanted

If that’s possible.


I’m tossed onto a table.

Invisible hands sort everything out.

Shirts go with shirts;

Pants with pants;

Dresses with dresses.

I am tossed to and fro,

Thrown about.


I see my match.

It’s a

Dumb, gray polka-dot sock–

Just like me.

We are folded together and

Returned to out bin.





I never wanted to grow up–

While my friends dreamed of

Cars and

Boys and


I was content with my dolls

And my daydreams

And Elmo.

I wore pigtails with pride

And romped the world,

Gathering dandelions,

Riding bikes,

Shying away from boys.

But we all age

Regardless of

Whether we want to or not.

Six became seven and eight and nine …

I found my spot at twelve, grew a few inches at thirteen.

I had my first foolish crush at fourteen

And by fifteen I had tossed him away and

Declared myself a spinster.

Then sixteen came around

And I met him.

The quiet boy, good looking, but not flashy.

I didn’t know what to think of him at first

But then I thought

Gah–he could never like me.

And that’s when I grew up.

Sixteen stretched on for a mighty while.

I thrived then because there was

No tension,

No possibility.

But then …

Could it be possible?

Oh, why must we grow up?

Why do we trade our

Trees for dreams of brick houses;

Our ponies for minivans;

Our baby dolls for real, live babies that have “our eyes” and “his nose.”

Why must the princes become

A single boy–

A silly, oblivious boy

Who dreams of wrangling clouds?

He dreams not of

Children and

Houses and


Oh yes, he knows it’s in the future.

But he’s content.

Why can’t I be content?

Why do things become so


When we age?

We thought maturity brought


But it doesn’t.

It brings shackles–

The shackles of uncontrollable love,

Of tears that wet pillows behind closed doors,

Of memories from silly things thrown at us from day to day.

We are in


Bondage to our age, to our stupid fantasies,

To the boy who thinks less of us

Than we do of him.


I will not age any further.

Give me my baby dolls,

My tree houses,

My fantasies;

I want my ponies,

And my pigtails,

The scraped knees

And the splinters.

I want the prince

That never came

And that never will.