Little Ones


From the coniferous forest

of my parents arms

in a house without running water

I was born.


When the soul sees darkness

in a life it’s been asked to live,

fragments fall to dust

and huddle deep

down in a bed

of sediment clay

until the war is over.


Harvest them back

with black panther courage,

our own fractured and scattered

Little Ones.

We must.


At 30,

I ran through the burned redwoods of Big Sur,

where fire had turned decades

of orbiting bark poems

of drought and rain,

into coal

catacomb hearts.

I took shelter in one

charred redwood belly

gaping hollow as a truck bed

and wailed for her

for my own heart

The Little Ones,

and for God.


At 35,

I found a cave behind the house.

Her black rock mouth cracked just enough

to slide into

the womb of Mother Earth.

Lined with tiny, sparkling fox teeth.

The Little Ones.

Clear, stalagtite crystals


Conscious of all love

beyond our own earthquakes

and trauma.


These are our fallen fragments

nesting in the tumbled rock wall

at the base

of the Mohonk Preserve.

She holds them

in the cracks tremors cause

for us to sing to

when we lift our oars

from the water,

knowing it's time to heal.


My voice is enough.

I am enough.

There is absolutely


wrong with who I am

and who

I will become.