They are bound by flesh
as leather around a Bible.
That they dance and write
in air the story
of what is lost, what is gained.

That they are soldiers
cut and bleeding, a link
to the heart’s kingdom.
That they are so beautiful
a moon has landed on each finger.

That they are trained
for harps and hired for murder.
That the cuticles are shaped
like soft horseshoes.
They contain rivers.

That the ring finger’s shyness
suffers when gripped by the powerful.
That the palm yields to blisters
and wears the calloused rags
of repetition.

That they are mythical
with their lifeline’s hieroglyphics.
That they struggle
because of their great strength.
They are able to heal themselves.

That they know what it means
to draw the water
and work without pay.
That they will hide our eyes
and pray for our sins.

That they may life the hammer
and lead our bodies to grace.
That they will make a print
like no other
until they wave goodbye.

~ Jeanne Bryner, nurse poet

printed in The Poetry of Nursing 

Watch then the shadows cross
Bold words move out of reach
Not in time not held
By Conviction bound
Light returns to
No green expanse, slips away
returning as dark country lane –
dreams are fickle beings
A man may feel
But a man must hold.

and now you can buy her new album with these songs and more!

http://www.nataliemerchant.com/l/leave-your-sleep

little blue sponges on short white sticks
a premature bouquet
before the long goodbye
your breathe slows and mine stops
life
is on pause

• I decided to start taking walks around our glorious lakeshore in the early early mornings on my way home from work. A friend came with me on the first and we were well rewarded with sights of loons, ducks, turtles, tulips and the foggy downtown skyline on a warm fresh sunday morning.
• we are packing to move into our new house! finally, we will own a home of our own again!!!
  this little place is currently a maze of cardboard boxes, our artwork is off the wall, I’m tossing out stuff as we pack and feeling just like the little caterpillar that could as I imagine all the infinite ways this home will bless and root my family. i’m in heaven.
• of all the plants i’ve loved and cared for at this place, the irises are my little queens. i’ve chosen to take only them to our new place. they are the strongest and daringest and purplest and make me so happy. They are now installed in pots, about to burst into bloom and gracing my front steps, waiting as anxiously as the rest of us for our new home.

From My flora

Caterpillar

Brown and furry
Caterpillar in a hurry,
Take your walk
To the shady leaf, or stalk,
Or what not,
Which may be the chosen spot.
No toad spy you,
Hovering bird of prey pass by you;
Spin and die,
To live again a butterfly.

~ Christina Rossetti

To Mother

I hope that soon, dear mother,
You and I may be
In the quiet room my fancy
Has so often made for thee, –

The pleasant, sunny chamber,
The cushioned easy-chair
The book laid for your reading,
The vase of flowers fair;

The desk beside the window
Where the sun shines warm and bright;
And there in ease and quiet
The promised book you write;

While I sit close beside you,
Content at last to see
That you can rest, dear mother,
And I can cherish thee.

Louisa May Alcott

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the
hummingbird –
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there
the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the
speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat
torn?
Am I no longer young, and still
not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still
and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and
the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since
all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a
mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give
shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the
sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over,
how it is
that we live forever.

~ Mary Oliver

There was never a Queen like Balkis,
From here to the wide world’s end;
But Balkis talked to a butterfly
As you would talk to a friend.

There was never a King like Solomon,
Not since the world began;
But Solomon talked to a butterfly
As a man would talk to a man.

She was Queen of Sabaea–
And he was Asia’s Lord–
But they both of ‘em talked to butterflies
When they took their walks abroad!

~ from The Butterfly that Stamped,
by Rudyard Kipling