Stillness & Reflection
-
Survival changed her enough to feel unfamiliar, but the woman in the mirror is finally someone she can recognize with pride.
-
At three in the morning, every poem becomes another lantern on the long road back to herself.
-
Bleached bone beneath prairie sun becomes a reminder that some forms of beauty survive even after the body is gone.
-
At 4:20 a.m., an old smoke ritual lingers as memory while the sleeping house and a tired mother move toward morning.
-
By noon, ordinary chaos has returned—cold coffee, dishes, children, and the small holiness of a lived-in home.
-
Three weeks, three apologies, three promises—and the growing realization that sorry means less every time nothing changes.
-
A candle and a little smoke become offerings to an old house that asks no questions and lets a tired heart leave something behind.
-
Only after the stroller is parked and the babies finally sleep does the sky release the storm it seemed to be holding for them.
-
After the last bottle and the day’s final demand, a quiet smoke becomes less about escape and more about returning to herself.
-
Before the children wake and the house fills with need, a few quiet minutes become enough room to hear herself again.
Between Bruises & Blooms 