The fear crawls in at dawn

when my eyes open.

I used to ask every morning:

How many more refugees?

How many less trees?

How much longer?


Now I stir and shake

but not in the pattern that the fear wants.

I won’t keep any promises

to this fear.

I won’t do what it expects.

Instead I draw

spirals and helixes with feather wings,

a moth flirting with the sun.

Surely the fear grows listless,


after all that whirling.


I will keep dancing my life

and hope to shine

in some strange corner

and teach someone

the kindnesses I know.


When I am frightened,

I will beg the

rising sun

to stay.

I will hum the name

of our solar star

in hundreds of circles


while my moth tongue

kisses this flame

just so


I don’t mind the burning.


It’s every morning

and we all come from the same

unassuming darkness.

We have traveled so far.


The sun says to every one:

This may not be

the story that you wanted


your loyalty

to all that you stand for,

all that you love ferociously,

in precious salt sweat lessons

infuses each cell

of the story you got.


The sun asks if there is more to shed.

I reply “Always.”                                        GRS 4/13/14






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