poetry
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Izzy Bear may be soft, but socks, wrong-cut toast, empty snacks, and closed baby gates can still awaken the mighty forest creature.
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Most days she is Gabby Goose; sometimes Goosifer appears with a grin, a terrible idea, and absolutely no intention of listening.
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Izzy Bear tumbles into each morning soft, brave, curious, and already collecting tiny treasures from the world around her.
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A candle and a little smoke become offerings to an old house that asks no questions and lets a tired heart leave something behind.
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Home becomes a scent left on borrowed fabric—sawdust, sweat, summer, and the strange peace of breathing someone in after they are gone.
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A tiny frog in the road becomes a reminder that motherhood teaches the eye to notice fragile lives the world might otherwise pass by.
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A well-loved tortoiseshell beneath a streetlight pauses just long enough to share a little softness before returning to the home she already knows.
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Another baby is not the dream by itself; the dream is partnership with someone who reaches for the work, the children, and the life beside her.
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She still believes in love, but the next yes must belong to someone who loves the whole family—not merely the woman at its center.
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Before she even reads the message, her smile recognizes the name—proof that memory lives as much in the body as the mind.
Between Bruises & Blooms 