Mending
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Bleached bone beneath prairie sun becomes a reminder that some forms of beauty survive even after the body is gone.
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Some songs don’t stop belonging to you just because someone changes the dedication. This poem isn’t about ownership—it’s about memory, and how love can echo long after the music changes.
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The boys are coming home, but relief arrives carrying supervision, weekends away, and the knowledge that another fight may still be waiting.
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Justice may still be face down in the deck, but hope needs somewhere to rest while court dates keep living in the body.
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At 4:20 a.m., an old smoke ritual lingers as memory while the sleeping house and a tired mother move toward morning.
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Sick or not, motherhood still wakes with bottles, dishes, dogs, medicine, and the quiet strength of doing the next thing.
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Grief is complex and personal, intertwining joy and pain; survival alone signifies resilience amidst profound loss and enduring memories.
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A summer trip in Vancouver turns frightening when an almost-two-year-old’s warmth becomes the first sign that something is terribly wrong.
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The work may not come with a paycheck, but every poem and page is building something real one sentence at a time.
Between Bruises & Blooms 