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February 26, 2026 by Rosemerry


for Mark Burrows
 
And there, in your letter, several doors,
all of them in the shape of an exclamation point,
all invitations to slip myself through
their dark slender lines and into
the realm of ecstasies—world of oh!
and wow! and yes! and love!—
into the sensory kingdom of blisses
that is always here, and yet somehow
I miss it, dulled as I am by the ellipses
of shoulds, the endless commas
that join me to the litany of frying pan,
dish soap, calendar, telephone,
toothbrush, postage stamp, pillow.
But oh! The wide spiraling of eagle this morning!
The deepening rose of the clouds at dawn!
My daughter asleep in her room!
Oud! Ginger! Dark crimson yarn!
Emptiness! Cool breeze! Your letter!
What joy this morning when I saw
all those tall, slim exclamation marks
and recognized them as the doors they are,
each one the chance to say yes! Yes!
to vibrating with elation! Yes! to the bright
bubbling champagne giddiness that rises inside
because wing! Because spring! Because sun!
Because pillow! Because toothbrush! Because breath!
Because orange! Because toes! Because you! 

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A Sign?

February 25, 2026 by Rosemerry


 
 
There, on my sleeve, a small white feather.
I don’t know that I believe in signs.
But the white feather that appears on my sleeve
while I think of saying goodbye to my girl
doesn’t mean nothing. It says to me,
pay attention. It says, slow down. It says,
you have learned how to love what isn’t here.  
I think of all the white feathers I started to see
after the death of my son. On the sidewalk.
In the air. On a mug. In a dream.
So I say to the feather, I see you. And I say
to the feather, thank you for reminding me
to notice the smallest of things. I say to the feather,
such a gift that you should appear here now.
And I say to my girl, I see you. And I say to my girl,
I love how good your hand feels in my hand. And I say
to my girl, such a gift you are here right now.

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The Trap

February 25, 2026 by Rosemerry


for Coleman Barks (April 23, 1937-Feb. 23, 2026)
 
 
It took me six months
to get Coleman Barks
to grant me permission
to use his translations of Rumi.
Six months of fretting.
Six months of worry.
Six months of feeling unworthy.
One day my friend asked
what was taking so long.
I told her, I hadn’t yet summoned
the courage to ask him.
In five minutes, she’d found me
his email. That night I wrote him.
The next day, he responded.
Of course. Please use them.
Fear is a trap. It uses self-doubt
as bait. But sometimes
generosity breaks the steel wire.
The trap never works as well again.
Years later, I remember his kindness
and the clarity of my friend.
How quickly joy can find legs.
Joy is the mouse that sees the trap
and knows there are better
places to find nourishment.
Joy is the mouse that sees the trap
and walks the other way.
 

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One Deep Listening

February 23, 2026 by Rosemerry


 
 
inside the prickly silence
a generous silence—
in the desert, a hidden spring

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In that Tender Moment

February 22, 2026 by Rosemerry


for Paula
 
 
With one fingertip
I drew gentle spirals
on the smooth, bare
skin where only weeks
ago her hair had been
and her eyes fell closed
and her breathing slowed
and I felt her whole body
soften, felt how strong,
how brave she has had
to be for so long, so long.
How I loved her then
in that moment when
she let me see beneath
the smile, beneath
the shine, beneath
the laugh. How I loved
her then when she let
me in, how honest
her exhaustion,
how precious,
how rare,
her trust.

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The Rooms of the Heart

February 21, 2026 by Rosemerry


                  for Rachel
 
 
I thought my heart might need a makeover.
There are well worn paths from all the entrances
and exits. The color palette hasn’t changed
since the early seventies when the heart
was first decorated. And the four chambers,
sometimes feel a little tight. Shouldn’t I make it
a little nicer for guests? I spoke to the interior designer,
asked her to spiff it up for me. She smiled and said,
Sweetheart, there’s nothing more beautiful
than a well-loved heart. Its colors are always true.
You don’t need anything new or fancy. Every ding,
every scratch has made you who you are—
a home for love. Let it be.

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Tender Astronomy

February 20, 2026 by Rosemerry


                  with thanks to Jack Ridl
 
 
The day after she died,
Jack wrote to me.
Pick one star each night.
Name it Kyra.
Stare briefly toward it.
Say good, very good night.
His words became
a constellation,
a way to navigate the dark.
Sometimes, like now,
when I can’t see the stars,
I find one inside me.
Name it Kyra.
I say good, very good night.
Then I thank Jack.
For that moment,
everything is star.

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Trembling

February 19, 2026 by Rosemerry


 
 
Growing out of the earth
of my own detritus,
this new self, field self,
shedding and emerging,
equally alive with loss
and becoming.

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Big Conversation

February 18, 2026 by Rosemerry



 
 
I’ve become the person who talks to avocados.
Oh, look how ripe you are!
The one who talks to dust bunnies under the bed.
Oh, my goodness. How long have you been there?
I’ve become the person who narrates wind as it gusts,
the one who composes out loud while writing poems.
In short, I’m the person who once mystified me.
Does she really think lettuce seeds can hear her?
And I love being this woman who converses with stars,
with shadows, this person who notices feelings that rise
as I move through a day and takes pleasure in greeting them.
Hello shame. I say. Hello fear. Hello embarrassment.
How much easier life is when I join in the big conversation.
Then I am never alone. Not that the bananas talk back.
Neither does the mop. But that doesn’t stop me
from being curious about my connection with all of it—
the stain on the dishtowel, the pond as it melts,
the broken pot, the robin in the yard, the highway trash.
It’s not the talking part I love, but letting my attention
touch everything. Cracked glass. A lost glove. Tire tracks.
Mostly, I love the listening for what isn’t said back.

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Vigil

February 17, 2026 by Rosemerry

In the growing dark we stood on the courthouse steps
with our candles lit and our voices soft and we sang,
Hold on, hold on, my dear ones, here comes the dawn.
And as we sang, someone read the names of those who died
in the custody of ICE or were killed by ICE. Tien Xuan Phan.
Isidro Perez. Johnny Noviello. Jesus Molina-Veya. We sang
and in the crowd someone raised high a sign with the name
of each person handwritten in silver. Heber Sanchaz Dominguez.
Victor Manuel Diaz. Parady La. With every silver name,
the notes stuck in my throat like coal, as if trapped there,
wedged with thick ache for each human, their families.
Luis Beltran Yanez-Cruz. Luis Gustavo Nune Cacéres.
Geraldo Lunas Campos. And every note that stuck wrestled
itself free to vibrate in the air with all other voices far and near
who were singing, Hold on, hold on. Nenko Stanev Gantchev.
Delvin Francisco Rodrigeuz. Fouad Saeed Abdulkadir.
My dear ones. Here comes the dawn. And the names went on.
And the names went on. And we sang. And we sang. Because
singing brings us closer, creates warmth and communion
where there was none. Because the dawn has not come.
Because these were daughters and mothers and brothers
and sons. Renee Nicole Good. Alex Pretti. Keith Porter.
We sang. We sang because they are more than names.
We sang. Through our tears. All together. We sang.

*Lyric and music by Heidi Wilson. For sheet music and audio, visit Heidi’s Patreon site.

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