On my way to town, I drive past houses where smoke from chimneys curls upward. It’s comforting to watch the updraft. I suddenly recall the boxy houses with chimneys that I once drew with a pencil as a child, always a curl of smoke climbing. What I like about the smoke, I suppose, is that it has direction. Not lost, not confused. It’s climbing upward. I live among mountains. I am nestled below in a valley. Yesterday I was in a group where people were talking about grief and how it feels to carry that denial, anger, sadness. It zaps energy, even though the moon rises and gives plenty of light. People in the group shared old and new losses. They have gone through Christmas, made plans, visited

How any poem is created is a mystery to me. How concrete (shape) poems like the three below happen is an even greater mystery. I had nothing in my mind. Then bam! a shape. Why one shape shows up and not another is God stuff. Why one word, the heart of the poem, dominates the entire poem is God stuff, too. But hey, it’s Christmas! My little gifts to you. “A Giving Tree,” the second poem below, has roots as well as the first and third. It came after seeing a tree on the highway. Imagine someone troubling themselves to set up and climb up a ladder and put colorful balls on a tree for passersby! Inexplicable. The tree has a kind of nobility, stoically cheerful, a dramatic uplift, whittled down t

Rain had fallen for days. Puddles, all over the yard. The days had been dark and cold. I could feel it inside my body. It made me reflect on the dark days more than 2,000 years ago. The world was not at its finest when baby Jesus came into the world. He had picked the time of Herod, taxes, dark maneuvers. But there was a Bethlehem star, a stable-place, shepherds, angels, Joseph, Mary, wise men. Wise men were searching for light, holiness, goodness, the Christ child. I know I’m not as wise, as good, or as God-like as these, but I know when I need more light. What I have learned in the past from darkness is that I can dim down like the leaves on the ground. I know about wanting to hide and cur

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4:00 p.m. It’s Friday, December 7th. I’m on time at Curious Craftsman, a shop in Norfork, Arkansas, ready to sign books for four hours. Here, just in case someone buys a book and wants it signed. I’m pretty disciplined about writing. But not so good about marketing what I write. Tonight I’m making an effort to market books. Curious Craftsman is cozy and smells like a flower. I’m surrounded by art, quilts, pottery, jewelry, books. My corner of the world is expecting snow and sleet tonight, but it has not yet started. Someone says, “After midnight. Not ’til then.” My time has gone to Thanksgiving, family, and writing lately. But once I get set up at a table and have pens laid out, it all comes

Saturday morning. Skies are clear. An hour after awakening, my husband shows me the two tall pines we lost in the night. One lays toppled on another. The straight winds blustered entrances and exits most of the night. No way these trees can upright themselves again. They are uprooted. Kindest friends, I am one of those who can hear snoring dogs, the drip of a faucet, someone turning pages and sighing over a sad paragraph. But last night, I heard nothing. Thank you, Lord. I needed the rest, the deep sleep. It was a gift...Though it’s strange to me that while I am sleeping, a 9-1-1 event can go on in my own yard, and I don’t know about it. Profound. We see the top of the gum tree scattered on