Winter’s day

Walking on an icy sidewalk

On a winter’s day.

Searching for the cracks

Where dirt has fallen

To place my careful


The wind slaps my face

Leaving its icy sting.

I walk a familiar path

But these feelings that rise up

As the cold wind that blows around me,


Are different.

Loathing and fear

Sit on my heart

Like a heavy stone

With edges as sharp as broken glass.

J. Hamilton


It is this pain that knaws away at me

Deep in my womb

And spreads up

Like fire

Across my belly.

It wants a way out

But can’t escape.

And my fear bubbles

In the darkness inside

Where light once lived.

An ache both physical and


To mend

To preserve what was lost

Profoundly palpable.

In it lives grief

In it’s many stages

The dance, for the young poet and ballerina in my life

You watch yourself dance

In front of the studio mirror.

You watch the way your feet move in their worn pink ballet slippers.

The way your arms curve

Gently as you hold your pose.

For a moment you remember your 8 year old self.

It is as if the child is looking at the young woman

Who she will become.

Who she has become.

You savor the moment.

Dance is poetry.

You are the poetry

In this beautiful dance

And your story



Beautifully choreographed

In the breaths between adage

And allegro.



I waited to hear your breath

For the first time

In that white walled delivery room.

Your tiny body

covered in my blood,

The cord still connecting you to me.

Your brief cry rung out

As they placed you in my arms.

Your sky blue eyes met mine,

A sense of knowing.

You calmly lay against my heart

Listening to my breath as I listened to yours.

It seems as if only yesterday

I waited to for you to emerge from me,

To hear your breath.

Now you are 17.

A man.

And very recently

You gave me life

When I struggled to breathe.

You saved me from the brink of death.

I will always remember the moment you took your breath

And the moment I found mine.



A reprieve from winter.

A grey marble sky.

Snow melting,

Murky puddles

On the chipped flagstone path.

A black squirrel on the steps,

His tail fanned out behind him

Waiting for crumbs to fall

On weathered wood

And pale patches of grass.