As I sort through years of accumulation of poems, wisdom, inspiration, I feel an energetic shift in the room, a spaciousness in the room and in myself. As I organize, recycle, and toss, I think of how a fire needs space to burn.  When we make a fire, we leave space around and between the logs.  There is a foundation, a plan, and with that these words of Seneca swirl in with direction, warmth, and light .  

If we don’t know what port we’re steering for, no wind is favorable.

Meanwhile the little bird chirps from her nest from morning to night.  I feel accompanied by her chirps as she sits on her nest. Her nest is below this room in which I sit. She makes the world seem balanced and right.

I wrote the above last night and then this morning I come to Robert B. Hubbell and what the overturning of Roe vs. Wade means to all of us.  It’s just the beginning of erosion and destruction of our rights, rights so painfully won.

Then I read this poem by Susan Vespoli, “Twenty Photos from Police Records of His Last Night Alive”.   She’s writing about her son.  She says about the poem:

“This past week, I received photos and body-cam video from police records of my son Adam’s last night on the planet before he was shot by a police officer. Adam and three other homeless individuals, one in a wheelchair, one leaning on a cane, were charged with a misdemeanor for ‘obstructing streets or public areas.’ Because my son questioned the police’s right to arrest them for sleeping, he was thrown to the ground, charged with ‘resisting arrest’ and hauled into jail for the night. The next day, he was shot. I am writing to give a voice to all the human beings who sleep without homes and who are treated this way.”

You can read the poem here:

Little Bird on Her Nest

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