Walking at 8 a.m. in Winter

Half of a tattered moon clings to southwest sky.
It's the first thing I look for.
It still marks time.
It keeps my eyes off plastic grocery bags
splayed on a barbed-wire fence.

More wind might send them flying

to a gray cottonwood's web.

I'll remember when I lay sleepless,
hearing that first gust shatter the dark.

Unseen sun glazes mesas and mountain
with rose, coral, golden taupe.
Counting each color,
I almost don't see

the boy without a bike helmet

careening downhill.

What started out as a hodgepodge of images from my morning walks turned into a poem, the first I've written for a while. It's not too profound but I view it as more of an exercise that helped me relax and create some metaphors for my emotions and the "gist" of some personal concerns.

This past year has taught me some difficult truths about the complexity of dealing with emotional challenges. I can't "plug" someone into a formula and expect a tidy result. I can't force anyone to heal. At the same time, I don't want to foster chronic dependence or shield anyone from the fallout of choices freely made.

How to achieve balance? I hope I've hit my lowest point and can view others with a greater compassion, especially when natural consequences must take their course. Sometimes I have to walk away from things beyond my control and let desert solitude drain the tension away.

Parenting is a delicate dance.

Copyright Jan. 22, 2012 by Nani Lii S. Furse

Late Winter

'Most people probably hope that winter is nearly over; before the season's change, I decided to share a simple description of sunset over a snow-covered landscape. "Late Winter" was one of the first poems I wrote in college. It was published years later in the December 2004 New Era.


Late Winter

Soft fire melts into blue embers
that speak of snow.
Winter breathes its dialogue
with latent earth, white phrases
contoured by prisoned shadow--
a slow sweep, a pulse
molding the rhythm of star and moon
as they spin towards dawn.



I'll never forget how my creative writing professor challenged students to look at the world with new eyes, to tune into our senses as we tried to create images that could evoke emotions. Life wasn't easy then, but I sometimes achieved greater awareness and recognized the beauty of familiar faces and the surroundings that I had often taken for granted.

Thinking about the past, I am reminded to slow down and pay more attention to unique people and simple things that shape my life now. It's vital to creativity which in turn yields joy and gratitude. It's vital to the life most of us hope for as we reach out with love.