Every day there is a prize drawing. 
But you must be present to win. 
What do you notice? 
Don’t judge it good or bad.
It is a gift to you. Sit with it.
Study it. Welcome it. 
It is here to teach you
something about yourself.

If you are lucky, it will crack
you open, teach you
something about yourself
that you never knew
because you kept it hidden
in your secret core, the
place even you were too
frightened to speak about.

If you are lucky you will learn 
of your own secret power 
to transcend 
to be 
to love 
to heal. 

If you are lucky 
there was the white butterfly beforehand 
to remind you 
that you are going to die.
Maybe not today 
maybe not tomorrow, 
but soon, 
sooner than the television
would tell you to believe,
sooner than the newspapers 
will know

that before you know it
death will be upon you 
as a friend 
inviting you to come out 
of your straw house, 
the one you built 
with your own hands 
with sticks and mud 
hoping to fortify yourself
against his request, no, demand, that you leave
your supposed shelter 
and step forth unencumbered 
into your true sanctuary. 

For other cultures know that death 
is sometimes more 
than death, just like life 
is sometimes more 
than life, 
but only if you let it, 
only if you stop holding on
so tightly.

Why do I write all this down?
Why do I document my days, 
catalogue my dreams, my discoveries?
Is it important that I write down
that once again
I went to bed late,
got up late,
was in a rush,
didn’t have time
to write letters or make art
but did have time
to watch meaningless videos 
through Facebook, like I’m
channel surfing for something meaningful
to share to inspire or encourage or inform.

Deep down, I’m not made for this life
of early mornings, of schedules,
of having to be anywhere and do something
like a trained monkey.
It is hard to fit
a full-time life
alongside a full-time job.

Maybe I’m writing up my
escape plan,
detailing the attempts to escape
that have failed,
so I can remember
to not do that
again.

Our way is the way
of the new green shoot,
pushing up
from the cold February ground.

Our way is the way
of the young mother,
laughing with her child.

Our way is the way
of the lone dogwood tree
in the forest
that blooms all by itself
yet in time
with all the others
it cannot
see.

My ancestors brought me here 
in boats, in planes, in their bodies.
They walked across the land 
that we now know as Spain
that we now know as France
they swam across the channel 
and they landed in Ireland and England. 
I am an immigrant too. 
I came with them,
invisible, hidden
within their bodies.
However they got here I came with them 
as a promise 
as a secret. 
However they came here 
I hitched a ride 
inside them. 

They had no way of knowing 
I was there. 
Or maybe they did. 
Maybe they hoped beyond hope 
that their dreams would
continue and their struggles
would be worth it. 

It is hard living up to the
expectations of people
you’ve never met, 
will only meet 
on the other side of eternity.
But they too had that same difficulty. 
How many people before me look through these 
blue eyes at this blue world
and wonder 
where to go next? 
How many people before me questioned 
should we go on 
or are we finally here?

How will I know 
when I have arrived? 
How will I know when it is time to settle down and
stop traveling? 
How will I know 
when I have reached the end 
of the race and I have
become the fulfillment
of all their dreams?

They took all the people, 
all the ones who were huddled and tired and yearning, 
and they put them in 
low-income housing. 
They put them in a box
away from services 
away from bus lines 
away from any help 
any chance. 
They said they were doing it to help them 
otherwise 
they’d be on the street.
They put them in a box, smaller than a grave
smaller than their hopes and dreams 
of a second chance 
of a new life 
in the fairytale 
that is called 
America.