For a papermaker far from her home

Dancing from room to room, you blessed every corner, every piece of furniture had your expansive glance.

Generosity radiating from each object, spilling out the windows.

Now, a turning inward.

Contraction to small spaces, microfibers, art-making. Hardly room to turn. Yet, turning is all.

Inside the spinning, carrying you far from those earlier homes. Tearing, matting and compressing -- your journey written on the dappled pages you've formed, through many new hands.

Home still visible in every crease.

for Joel

Bright star pinwheeling at the edge of this galaxy, pulled to the Center with old invisible cords.

You want to beat them, swear you'll rip them out of every chakra.

But without their pull, you'd sail beyond our sight. So sing her, she who knows not the words, to the arms of her Beloved, holder of universes. Turning the cords to music.

For a Friend Feeling Pushed to the Edge

Locked into a pressing vise, old stories like harpies fly just outside your reach.

Finding the courage to breathe from your core, your heart flickers once again.

This old tree offers refuge. The walls safe and ancient become your new skin, and you find those roots once again, flush with abundant stillness. Draw up that peace and spin a new beginning, your wounds home for the forest's song.