Reader, Thinker, Writer, Lover.
October 2015






The only thing worse than going through hard times is watching our kids go through hard times. Never is the instinct to protect and fix stronger than when the little people, entrusted to us by the universe, are hurting.

I’ve watched my kids go through their share of heartache; enough to last a lifetime, thankyouverymuch! There are days and weeks and months where I think, “Enough! Enough heaviness. Enough challenge! ” Read more…


It’s 6am mornings, dawn barely breaking,  40 degrees and wind howling, bucking bales while they whinny for their breakfast.

It’s pulling a wagon through three inches of mud and slop, slipping and sliding while your hair swirls around your face.

It’s worrying until 11pm, then finally caving and heading out into the freezing drizzle to blanket.

It’s picking hay out of your pockets and horse treats out of washing machine and dirt out of…well, everywhere.

It’s having them raise a hoof to you and yelling, “Oh, I’ll GIVE you a reason to raise a hoof at me if you don’t put that down this minute!” Read more…

October 21, 2015

Written by Posted in Poetry Comments 2

Each morning

begins a little slower

than the last.


I wander outside,


which is my custom.

Orion’s Belt hangs above me,


in no hurry to head west.


The sun takes its time rising,

pacing itself for the long journey south.


As the day slowly heats up

the smell of sage and leaves

fills the air

and I make my way around –

setting things in order

for the coming cold.

And the geese,

sure signs of change…

I hear them calling

far to the east, near the sunrise


I stand still,

struck quite dumb

as they move west over my head


their wings stirring up the atmosphere above me


They’re hurrying,

always hurrying

to some important destination.



I am cocooned in a symphony of sound.

Each melody, specific,

Each accent, amplifed.


In the distance, a train’s engine rumbles

as it clatters along the tracks,

a low, mournful horn song drifts on the

dense morning air.

Every bird song is distinct –

Twitters and squeaks

Chatters and winnows

Some percussive

Others rhythmic:

A dawn chorus.

The clouds push it down to my waiting ears,

rather than allowing it to escape upwards.


The farm is my chamber

for a musical festival

where I am surrounded,



I shiver and smile

and pull my jacket close around me

the mist falling across my face.

The cottonwood in the distance

a ghost,

black and skeletal.

October 1, 2015

Don’t Wait, Mama.

Written by Posted in Blog Posts Comments 1

I always intended to read to her more.

I was going to teach her how to cook.

I meant to show her the best way to clean a bathroom.

I always wanted to cuddle up on the couch nightly with a book.

We intended to hike Maroon Bells.

Read more…