On Teddy’s Last Morning of High School (a poem)

I make waffles,
served with that West Virginia-tapped maple syrup
you love, and

a flock of geese
threads its way through the sky overhead and memories
flattened by time, as if
preserved between the pages
of a thick book, suddenly
pulse with scent, translucent
in a sheaf of golden light.

I hold them with light fingers, afraid of the crumble; afraid of my
unwieldy touch. do I speak?
it will not be contained in
any word-box. I want a
picture. you kindly say “no,”
your hair uncombed, sleep
still in your eyes.

but you stand still as a tree as I kiss you goodbye,
tasting of salted maple syrup
and dreams.

Playdates with God: Morning Run (a poem)


under the interstate bridge, where
the blue-gleaming swallows nest and
swoop and dive at my head as I pass;

where the mamma duck leads her younglings
in a straight line and the green growing
earth drinks spring rain with his mouth-straw,

shhh … do you hear his slurpy inhale? here
the sun-gilded grasses and rain-washed
street make friends; and I listen to my breath,
the pounding of my feet and

forget myself for a while.

Every Monday I share one of my Playdates with God. I would love to hear about yours. It can be anything: outside, quiet time. Maybe it’s solitary. Maybe it’s loud and crowded. Just find God and know joy. Click on the button below to add your link. I try to visit a few of your stories every week, so if you are a new visitor, be sure to let me know in the comments so I can welcome you. Grab my button at the bottom of the page and join us.

Laura Boggess

Uncovered (a poem)


pull down the tent and sleep
with me under the open sky;

let your hands be the fire
that warms me—

shed these false coverings
that hold us and breathe deep

the wild honeysuckle that grows
from the curve in the nape of my neck;

when dark kisses the edges
of the day I will trace

that thin, pink line on the horizon
following your collarbone,

staining your skin translucent
with star pigment as

night deepens like a bruise,
tender under your fingertips;

that soft place in the contour
of my thigh, your canvas.

my dream-self will lift with our
breath into the air

wavering on the water in
the shadows; I am ocean mist,

glistening over all of you,
a pulsing second skin.

sleep with me under the open sky
and hide from me no more.

The Mirror is a Coward (a poem)


i call the mirror
“coward,” afraid
of your voice; that
heavy stone; heard
around a corner it

and your pestle laugh?
how it pulverizes, grinds
my heart to sand.

i would write
you a letter if
i knew your

there is facebook or
i know your
number but

words can choke
pen and key, same
as a throat

i drink the light
from your eyes;
it rises within
me like steam

i cannot touch it
i cannot hold it

the mirror is
a coward, hiding
from the thin ribbon
of your smile.

Playdates with God: The River has Many Voices (a poem)




Once a year, the canyon calls our name. We let go of the heavy things and heed her summons; gather in our lonely arms words and music and beauty and fine conversation instead. There are long hours spent watching light play on water, listening to bird-magic, opening up to the stars.

These moments nourish, just as much as Tim’s baked oatmeal or apple cobbler. Maybe more. Seeds are planted that will not break the scrim of our soil-hearts, sometimes for years to come. But we feel the roots begin to tendril, feel our thoughts like soft clay, bending to make room for all these new things.

This morning, I sit in my usual with my Bonnie-girl sleeping on my lap, and I remember the words of one of our speakers. “You don’t make a poem happen,” Marilyn McEntyre said. “I really do believe they come through another channel. You craft it; you craft what you are given. But you don’t make it happen.”

Yes. And so, this is happening.


Wise Counsel

inside the river are many voices;
they speak their stories with cobwebbed tongues,
like slow-waving grasses
lifted by ebb and flow
of the tide until

they settle into the soil of our hearts
as the moon pulls the glassy waters;
and sprout from our throats
like a slow-turning vine
waiting to fruit

a part of our own story now

i shed my shoes and step gingerly,
break the surface like a dream
and bend to peer
deep beneath
a rippling pool

silence is the tinkling sound
of trickling water, the many voices
the river gives;
wise counsel
for days to come.

**The winner of Ann and Charity’s lovely book On Being a Writer is KJ! And the winner of the book set of For the Love of God: A Woman’s Guide to Finding Faith and Getting Grace and Jesus Daily: 365 Interactive Devotions is  Shelly Hendricks. Congratulations! I’ll get those out to you ASAP.

Every Monday I’ll be sharing one of my Playdates with God. I would love to hear about yours. It can be anything: outside, quiet time. Maybe it’s solitary. Maybe it’s loud and crowded. Just find Him. Be with Him. Grab my button at the bottom of the page and join us:

Laura Boggess