Friendship is measured in miles and smiles.

Hello, old friend.

And (yet again) we begin the checklist of “catching-up” the way we always have, the way I always do since my friends live so far away. Our reunions are bittersweet: we both have coffee breath and we can’t talk because we are smiling too hard.

I got married a month and a half ago.
We moved into an apartment with laminate wood floors AND a gas range.
I’m working full-time – I even have medical insurance.
I just found out that my poetry chapbook will be published and available for sale.

When the publisher confirms the release date and sends me the PDF to approve, I’ll let you know. It’s like a portable, in-your-hands, new-paper-smelling copy of this little blog. You can take me wherever you want – as if you couldn’t already do that since this blog is mobile friendly.

I suppose then we won’t be long-distance friends anymore if I’m in your pocket…

Poetry is dropping a rose petal in the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.

To relive my poor brain from straining it’s neurons to understand the biochemistry within it’s own biochemistry (so meta), I enrolled in a poetry workshop course that requires us to write enough poetry to create a chapbook.

Not only that, but we have 16 weeks to create a potentially publishable chapbook.

And, that potentially publishable chapbook must contain around 25 poems(!), each representing it’s own color woven into this literary masterpiece that bleeds from the fingers hastily typing “vivid verbs” for the deadlines.

As if I could manage that (on top of my two jobs, other schoolwork, and wedding planning)…

Here’s something that we kinda like and are willing to subject to your ever-reading, ever-critical eyes.  Bon appetit.


Little feet slapped the kitchen tile,
pitter-pattering to the table.
Chairs scooching
across wooden floors
as tiny fingers grabbed tiny plastic forks.

Butter spattered against blueberry flapjacks
as maple syrup pooled on the plates.
Crispy bacon crumbled
as tiny teeth chomped,
washing it down with chilled milk.

“Another round!” my breakfast bar flies
cried, tiny heads peering around the door.
Tiny messes galore as I made a few more
and as my husband gave me a kiss,
I wondered how much I’d miss

when they weren’t so
little anymore.