my best defense is a sense of self, one that wavers but does not fall. swaying, it always brings me back to balance again. i struggle with my openness to all with love, before they have earned my trust. 9.6.17

trampled flat i press into the earth, breathe in the cool damp soil, worms wiggle, seed sprout through. remain to rest heart beats with the tide fingers touch feathery tendrils sinking deep i await my turn to sprout. 9.5.17

many chambered heart overflows with joy, ebbs with disappointment, rhythmically keeping time faithfully. sudden throb of love still eludes me, teasing with its flush, like a fox that scopes a hen house, only soon to scurry for fear of discovery. 9.3.17

mottled by scars my leg has suffered as a doctors’ pin cushion, poked and probed for medical curiosity. now my skin stings from the needles’ bite, piercing my flesh with a trail of color, enveloping the trauma in new growth, rewriting my history in a hopeful vein. 9.2.17

the troubled soul that bubbles over from loss and fear of more loss to come so claws are extended and hackles rise, ready for battle when in fact she longs for surrender. 9.1.17