mowing over dandelions

is not quite the same

as the childlike wonder

of blowing away seeds and fluff,

the wind catching and floating off

tiny parachutes full

of imagination and dreams,

the world an endless possibility

of happy endings.


but there is something

strangely satisfying

in driving the motor over their bowed

and weed killer-sprayed heads,

the blade spinning impassively

and the wheels flattening their discarded stems,

while small puffs of seedlings escape

from under the sides of the mower

like dying breaths.


the small joys of adulthood.

snow in the spring

yesterday it snowed a late spring snow,

and today i watched heavy, wet mounds fall

from the branches, already laden with green.


rather than sitting in silence,

the weight of cold and frozen memories

keeping them still,

exposed limbs blanketed and tucked away,


the branches let the snow slip off in shrugs,

wet leaves dancing,

sending showers down,

too full of life, too awake to sleep another day.

reduce. reuse. recycle.

When you say, “I will give you a new heart,”

you do not mean that you will throw away

the one I already have

like a totaled car or a broken dish.


For you, new is a word

that means returning something

to its original purpose,

restoring its former glory.


Which is why you make reusable hearts,

something good of your own hand.

an up-cycle, this heart,

re-purposed into a new love,

what it was always made for.


the joy of doing nothing —


of stretching out my thoughts,

too long folded up,


of staring into the sky

in search of new words,


of drawing still enough to feel

the universe expand,


of letting my soul settle

into itself,

into You.