Like the desert willow
 Isn’t a real willow
And as mountain mahogany
Isn’t mahogany, so

I don’t feel like I am
A real woman or
A real damn beauty either
Some days in this old war

Iambs and chromosomes
Melt away in daylight 
When does a shrub become a tree?
It turns out no one knows.

Don't let your boys grow up to be cowgirls
Let them call things they don't like gay
So no one will spread that rumor any more
Or ask why they shaved their legs today

Don't let your boys grow up to be cowgirls
Let them tell their girlfriend from bible study
What they do sometimes alone at home
And see how things get muddy

Don't let your boys grow up to be cowgirls
Let them live with their straight ex-wife 
And their three kids surprised about dad
Let them cry in the bathroom about family life

Please let your boys grow up to be cowgirls
Teach them to pick mountain mint
And wear ten-gallon hats 
Let them ride sidesaddle into the sunset

Driving past the light
Of hearth and home
You think of hopes
Hung on trees
Long since dead.

You fought in many
Biweekly garland wars
And hoped most days
They'd subside 
That the sacrifice 
Made the flowers grow
And they did
 Smell so sweet
And you learned about peace.

Farther still in the distance
You recall the last best hope 
Of your past life
She held your secret.
You held onto her 
Like a crucifix.
And some say
 She set you free.

You see now dead trees.
They grow mushrooms
House birds
And feed many things
You see now fertile ground
And a broken branch in the mire
Preserved forevermore.

Sitting by the dry creek bed,
When the wind gathers the willow seeds,
And scatters the blessed fluff,
Am I made of stronger stuff?

I smell the iron some mornings,
As a drop rolls down my chin.
Is it smooth enough?
And am I made of stronger stuff?

The oak cracks and creaks,
And the shell shatters underfoot.
I wonder these long weeks,
Am I made of stronger stuff?

The mussel makes the pearl
And would it shine the same,
Buried in another lake or stream?
I sleep assured of dreams.

“And thus the legend runs- I Justice am,
And I will bring the hero home again, 
To hold once more her place in this town”

Arise Yukon Cornelia
And taste the prospect 
Of waking after anesthesia

When Christmas is over forever
And no more twisted epiphanies
Rend themselves together

Not a stone, but a mouse
Will stand on a stone
At the western white house

As beavers tear out
Our concrete channels
And turn on the spout.

You'll hear no boosted bass
Or school or church bells
But we'll have left a trace.

Burnt out mixed-use buildings
And the foundations of mcmansions alike
Are again nests and dwellings.

Between you and me,
Each channeled stream,
And the Bridgeford rolls factory,

I think I may survive to meet thee.
By hook and certainly by crook
And perhaps on bended knee,

Through the jaws of the coyote
The urban heat island effect,
And the stars I can hardly see.

By specialist bees,
Old oak trees,
And the deepest blue I see,
I swear I will save 
ALL my pretty pink ribbons
For thee.

okay I hate Jordan Peterson,
and maybe it's just that little Y chromosome
raging at the dying of the light,
but I feel a need to dive into the belly of the Beast and rescue my father from the Dragon.

maybe it's because I have the nagging feeling
that just like Simba or Oedipus,
when you run from your past,
you are in fact consumed by it,
and prophecies come true.

the jeweler knows the use of ashes,
and I want to too.
maybe it's okay to both bless and curse
the stars I was born under.
could I be born under any other?

Waking up from the lifelong dirge for the woman who never was,

Seeing instead a glimmer of the girl who showed herself,

Before men were men and women were women, 

And tried honeysuckle off the fence at the back of the schoolyard,

And played pretend under the tree that she was blond like the others,

The woman that is may cry a bit for her missing years in-between,

But never forget to shake the dust off her memories of the girl that was.

She crawls slowly from the hills and throws herself into the ocean,
Love moves her relentlessly in slow motion.
And she rises again the next day.

The world has entered into the age of her,
And she smells like Douglas fir,
But I wear her ornaments proudly.

She grows white roses for her purity,
the thorns for her lust, 
And the wild ones because she must.

She is more precious than rubies,
And her steps take hold on hell.
If this poem was about her, 
she'd be able to tell.

Dear Lord,
Who made me the way I am,
For some reason.

Bless me in this act,
Of co- creation with you.
Separate the parts of my past,
That only serve to harm,
And cleave them from my future,
Abundant in you.

Make your house a refuge for all peoples,
A shelter from the storms within and without,
And bless us with the hope and wonder of small children,
As we have been born again.
Amen.