In the wake of battles and inauguration at the Capital, as I looked through poems written in the past 4 years, this one spoke to me and my hope for all our healing:

Where to Begin

Yes, there is too much hate.
Near, far, so many people
fighting each other.
 
And in my heart?
 
Not just a seed, 
a full-grown weed
camouflaged 
within a righteous garden
of white flowers,
fiery flowers,
conviction, 
feels-so-good zeal,
unquestioned.
 
The inner root grows deepest,
is hardest to see,
and is unbearably painful to pull
 
with my own loving hands 
from my own frightened chest.
 

After a few weeks break during the holidays, 
here is a new offering.
This one was created through 
a "found poetry" technique
of cutting random words from magazines
and arranging them until they surprised me.
I often turn to this technique 
when I am troubledor grieving. 
I am always surprised how the poem
responds in a healing voice.

Carry On, Says a Voice in the Dark

Carry on,
says a voice in the dark,
if possible, all the way
to the forgotten measure
of limestone tears,
cave pearls.
 
Sometimes I hear children playing
or the call to prayer, sometimes, 
the forest coming back.
 
It is hard to imagine
how much hope, regret,
fear, hatred, hunger, 
pain and dying 
are experienced 
in this place.
 
Making the story
even more interesting:
we don’t want it to end.

For the week of Winter Solstice and Christmas, 
here is a morning's walking meditation 
from a few years past:

Christmas Morning
 
As if sensing this is a day for gifts,
the dog insists we walk
a way we never go,
discovering a scent hidden under
new snow dusting the sidewalk,
glittering like the path of a star,
which she tracks with her nose.
 
The tipped half-moon
is a silver ladle
pouring out sunrise
the color of honey and cider,
Wassail brewed in the sky,
departing winter storm
afire with dawn.