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Conditions

July 6, 2026 by Rosemerry


 
 
Sometimes, certain she has botched it all, 
certain she has made of the gift of her life 
a desert, something desolate and harsh, 
when surely she was meant to create 
something lush and verdant, something fecund, 
fertile and teeming with wonder, in that moment 
of self-inflicted despair, fueled by comparison, 
a woman might stand in the midst of that desert 
and hold in her hands her own tender heart, 
hold it the way she might hold any spiky thing—
lightly, as if it might float—and marvel at the wisdom
of prickly things, how each spine provides a small 
measure of shade in a place with no other shelter,
how together those spines reflect the sun to protect
what is inside from burning, how even the prickliest 
things are encoded to flower when given more light, 
when offered the barest encouragement of rain.

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July 5

July 5, 2026 by Rosemerry


 
 
Dad would lie on his back
in the middle of the living room.
I would step into his open palms
on either side of his shoulders
and slowly, he’d lift me into the air.
I loved the wavering, the bobble 
before the balance, the moments 
of freedom when I floated above him. 
Today, when the concert ended 
with “What a Wonderful World,” 
it was only in the last verse I realized 
they’d played Dad’s favorite song
on this day, his birthday, almost
five years after his death, and 
I felt it again, that sense of being 
elevated by a power greater than my own.
Tears falling even as I started
to laugh. Laughter rising even
as I started to cry. The gift of it all
swirling in me as ecstatic as the violins,
primal and playful as the drum beat, 
unexpected as the riffs on the piano, 
familiar as my dad’s hands wrapped
around my soles pressing me higher, 
oh wonderful world, higher.

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Reunion

July 5, 2026 by Rosemerry


 
 
After the kazoos and champagne and hula hoops,
after the blueberry pie, after the napkins folded
and unfolded and crumpled, after the impromptu
parade on the drive, after the house full of laughter
and music, after the glow sticks, the glittering headbands, 
the mountain of dishes washed and dried and put away 
there was that moment when we sat on the couch,
just the two of us. You held my hand. We said nothing.
Like two swallows, done swooping for the day
who finally enter the nest they have built together, 
snuggling at last on the rim. 

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One Citizen

July 3, 2026 by Rosemerry

fearing the flag
no longer represents me
I start to fly the flag

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One Strange Gift

July 2, 2026 by Rosemerry

 

so grateful to share 
it with you—
this loneliness

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The Unknown Women

July 1, 2026 by Rosemerry


 
 
They, too, once had gardens filled 
with succulent dark leaves and firm
swollen roots they planted to feed 
their family, their community, themselves. 
They, too, would walk the rows and tug 
at weeds and make small, quirky bouquets
to take to the graves of their loved ones. 
I don’t know why their gardens are gone now. 
Perhaps covered in ash from wildfire. 
Perhaps bombed out and torn up by war. 
Perhaps transformed to dust by drought. 
Or perhaps they are simply too old now 
to pick up the trowel, the shovel,
the hoe. But the women remember 
how they marveled at the pea vines climbing 
the fence to produce a profusion of sweet 
green pods dangling on the wire. 
I long to feed them from these beds, 
if not the food itself, feed them at least the ongoing
dream of garden, as someday I, too,
will be offered the dream through the hands 
and thoughts of another woman who finds herself
standing in the midst of abundance longing
to share it with all the women who can’t 
find their way into the garden today.
Not knowing how to bless them, I bless them anyway
as I have been blessed, and I transplant calendula,
deadhead the cosmos, harvest
heads of garlic, brush the loose dirt away. 

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At the Edge

June 30, 2026 by Rosemerry


 
 
The bright red glow of wildfire flared up 
into the night, a terrible, beautiful, changing glow.
We couldn’t not look, students of fire 
that we are, and I was suddenly too aware 
of the dry and brittle parts of myself, places
parched as these Cimarron mountains. 
How easily it can all go up. 
We are asked to live this life
that can combust in an instant,
asked to pull the unstoppable into our lungs.
The glow continued to blaze, to leap up. 
It burned. I could not stop watching
the tower of flame, the way it charged the night.

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Kinship

June 29, 2026 by Rosemerry


for James and Elena
 
 
We three sit
on large rocks
in the middle
of the river
like an earthbound
constellation. As
we speak and
splash, I see
in my mind
the invisible lines
that join us,
and we become
a new shape
we can use
to navigate through
this day, our
daily gift. Is
it any wonder
when we rise,
we are shining?

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Learning from the High Wire Walkers

June 28, 2026 by Rosemerry


 
 
First, they start close to the floor,
practice walking heel to toe, practice
bouncing and turning and gazing 
at a distant object instead of looking
down at their feet. As the stakes
and the rope get higher, they 
begin to practice failure. Practice
hanging from the wire for long
periods of time. Practice holding
their own weight. This. Perhaps 
this is what we are doing now 
with democracy. Practicing
how to hold up our weight. 
Don’t look down. Don’t look down. 
View it all as practice. Trust that balance
depends on tension. Trust that
every step matters.

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In the Junkyard of the Heart

June 27, 2026 by Rosemerry

all those feelings of brokenness
I tried to throw away
now shining in the starlight

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