In wandering clouds of dust
Remaining as empires crumble,
The silent chaos demands a hero;
No one unusually glorious,
For redemption indulges the humble,
And no one herculean, virile,
For the torrent of mad destruction
Requires a tempering peace,
Whose invisible powers bend
The brokenness back into function,
Till angry ambitions cease,
And people love people again.
The Flowers and Me
Written in 2011.
Silent night, billionth star,
Perfect rose, speak.
When I see you, in me cries.
I am strong, and weak.
We belong together, the flowers and me;
Never can I sever this funny mystery.
Every day you see your own face;
And think it boring, as though nothing new is there.
Yet because you already know the tears in your own
Eyes and the stories in your own mouth,
And everyone else knows theirs but not yours,
Each remains silent, not asking, not telling.
In this way, the histories of generations go untold.
What you do not tell, no one will know.
What you do not ask, no one will tell.
Country happiness crowds my evening walk,
This solitary dirt road a dusty ribbon amid undulating fields,
The still scented air hanging heavy in haying time.
Slowly the sun sinks.
Finally cool, the land, leaving the sky to its crimson and salmon glory,
Murmurs sleepily to itself;
Sweetly the day fades.
(Written in 2014, this poem describes my reaction as a four-year-old every time my dad looked at me, amused, and said, "Danielle, I think your imagination is running away with you again.")
Is running away with me--
They say that to me all the time,
And every time they say it,
I cannot help but see a thing
That climbs in through the window,
And grabs me by the waist and dashes
Over field and meadow,
Farther far and still away
Until I cannot see
Where it has vanished in the hills
With a very helpless me.
And never and ever again will I
The thing and myself see.
Written in 2015
Clouds like frigates floundered,
Becalmed in azure air.
Because you loved the sky and land,
I knew that they were fair.
You looked at books with wonder
So I see them just the same;
And faded heirlooms as a door
To some forgotten day.
You thought my childish musings
Were worthy of your time;
And smiled as if my chatter
Evinced a brilliant mind.
I never felt too foolish
To say I couldn’t see;
You seemed delighted just to learn
The world afresh through me.
Keenly you attended
To all my rambling tales,
As if my growing were a song
That you were writing down.
Written in 2007
My chariot of life draws swiftly on
In passing through the land of time,
On past the many seasons, stretching years.
The joyful times, dressed grand and fine,
And sad, in sober hues, all lie behind.
The road ahead lies hid in quiet fog.
I cannot see the road and yet
My horse’s hooves upon the beaten path
Methodically plod on through wet
And dry, my only thought a lazy fret:
So wrapped in rainy time that I forget I am
The beneficiary of pain,
I wish to spur the horse a bit
This chilly day, and in some sunnier lane,
By warmth of summer soothed,
Draw back the rein.
Artist and Purveyor of Endless Possibilities