Month: June 2026

Before the Doors Opened

Several years ago, I attended a community event.

Like most people attending, I arrived shortly before it started. Conversations had already begun by the time I found a seat. Materials were laid out on tables near the entrance, and a schedule for the day waited inside a folder placed at each chair.

The event unfolded as planned. Presentations stayed on schedule, discussions continued during breaks, and people lingered afterward to finish conversations that had started earlier in the day. By late afternoon, everyone gathered their belongings and headed home.

Like most attendees, I left thinking about the conversations and presentations from the day. The planning that had gone into the event never crossed my mind.

Years later, after becoming involved in organizing events and community projects, those memories began to look a little different. What once appeared effortless rarely was.

Behind every meeting, conference, or community gathering were hours of planning, coordination, and problem-solving. Schedules changed. Details had to be adjusted. Unexpected challenges appeared and required attention.

Much of that work happened long before the first attendee arrived and continued long after the last person left. Most people never saw any of it. There was no reason they should. The purpose of the work was not to be noticed. The purpose was to create an experience that allowed everyone else to focus on why they were there.

Over time, that realization began to connect with experiences from other parts of my life.

Growing up, I rarely thought about why certain things worked. If a classroom was moved, it was simply the classroom where we met. If an activity needed to be adapted, it was simply the way the activity was done. If transportation had to be arranged differently, it was just part of the day.

Looking back, it is easier to recognize what was happening behind those moments. My parents spent years navigating situations I barely noticed at the time. Phone calls were made before a new school year began. Meetings were scheduled. Questions about accessibility, transportation, and participation were discussed long before I ever entered the room. Many of those conversations happened without me knowing they had taken place. By the time I arrived, a plan was often already in place.

Teachers often did the same. Sometimes a classroom location changed. Sometimes an assignment was modified. Sometimes a field trip required additional planning. As a student, those adjustments were simply part of the school day. What I rarely saw were the discussions that took place beforehand and the time spent making sure I could participate alongside everyone else.

As the years passed, I began to notice the same thing in community organizations and advocacy work. An event appeared on the calendar, but someone had already spent months organizing it. A speaker took the stage, but someone had coordinated schedules, arranged logistics, and solved problems behind the scenes. Programs existed because volunteers invested evenings, weekends, and countless hours long before anyone benefited from the final result.

Most participants experienced the finished product. What remained largely invisible was everything that led to it: the ideas, planning, problem-solving, and conversations that transformed a challenge into a solution.

The older I get, the more I see this pattern repeated elsewhere. People usually remember the outcome, not the work that made it possible. The details behind success are easy to miss, perhaps because the best efforts often make difficult things look simple. When something works as intended, attention naturally shifts to the result, while the countless decisions, adjustments, and unseen hours behind it fade into the background.

Looking back, many of the opportunities and experiences that shaped my life have something in common. Parents, teachers, family members, advocates, volunteers, and others spent time working through details I rarely noticed at the time.

The solution was visible. The thought, planning, and conversations behind it usually were not. Only later did I realize how many doors had already been opened before I ever walked through them.

Another Way

Last year brought me to Italy. Sitting at cafés watching crowds of people pass by and wandering through villages and cities I had only read about, it was difficult not to think about the path that had brought me there. The streets were narrower than I imagined. The buildings were older than anything I was used to seeing.

Italy gave me time to reflect.

At home, I rely on walking poles. Italy presented different challenges. Cobblestone streets, uneven surfaces, and the realities of navigating unfamiliar places required a different approach. My brothers pushed me through cities, villages, museums, and public squares, determined that I would experience Italy, not simply visit it.

During that trip, I was reminded of something I had known for most of my life. My brothers never spent much time dwelling on what could not be done. Their attention was usually on the solution rather than the obstacle. Pushing a wheelchair through crowded streets in Italy was simply another example of a lesson they had been teaching me my entire life.

This June, I turn 51.

Looking back, it is clear how much I learned from the example set by my family and how much of my life reflects it. Growing up with two siblings meant living in a home where challenges were met with the belief that there was always another way. Challenges were acknowledged, but they were rarely allowed to define what came next. When problems arose, my parents, brothers, and I looked for another way. Difficult circumstances were approached with the expectation that somehow, some way, we would figure things out.

That mindset became part of who I am.

Disability was part of my life, but it was never treated as a reason to lower expectations. My family recognized the realities that came with it, yet they never allowed those realities to become the focus of my life. Expectations remained expectations. I was encouraged to participate, contribute, try things, and find my own way. If one path proved difficult, another could often be found.

Looking back now, I understand what a gift that was.

The beliefs that shaped our home never really left. They followed me into school, work, and experiences I never imagined as a child. They showed up in the choices I made, the risks I was willing to take, and eventually in a trip to Italy.

Fifty was a good year. Italy was part of it.

What stays with me most, though, is the reminder of who helped make those experiences possible.

To my family: Thank you for always helping me find another way.

— KAW

What the Education Department’s Latest Changes Mean for Students With Disabilities

The U.S. Department of Education has announced changes that will shift some special education and civil rights responsibilities to other federal agencies. Federal officials say the legal protections available to students with disabilities will remain unchanged, but the agencies responsible for administering some of those programs and investigating certain complaints will not.

Under newly signed interagency agreements, many administrative functions related to special education will move to the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS), while some civil rights investigation and enforcement activities will shift to the Department of Justice.

The changes are particularly significant because they involve programs governed by the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, known as IDEA. The federal law is intended to ensure that eligible students with disabilities have access to a free and appropriate public education. IDEA serves millions of students across the country and provides early intervention services for infants and toddlers with developmental delays and disabilities.

The announcement has drawn significant attention because IDEA affects millions of students with disabilities and their families. Much of the discussion has focused on how responsibilities will be divided among federal agencies and how the transition will affect the administration and oversight of special education programs.

Under the agreements, HHS is expected to oversee the administration of IDEA grants, review whether states are complying with federal requirements, monitor the implementation of special education programs, investigate and address compliance issues, and assess state performance each year.

The Department of Education’s Office of Special Education and Rehabilitative Services (OSERS) will continue to develop policy, provide technical assistance and guidance to states and school districts, and conduct outreach to families, educators, and advocacy groups.

Federal officials say the changes are intended to improve coordination among agencies that serve people with disabilities and simplify the administration of related programs. They point to programs such as Head Start, which already works closely with school districts and serves children with disabilities. Bringing related responsibilities together, they say, could improve coordination among programs serving many of the same families.

Supporters also argue that consolidating related responsibilities will likely reduce administrative barriers and make it easier for families to navigate services.

Others have raised concerns about moving responsibilities away from the Department of Education. Some disability rights advocates and educators believe special education programs are best administered within a single agency focused on education, while supporters of the changes believe the new arrangement could improve coordination among federal programs serving people with disabilities.

Students with disabilities are also protected under two federal laws. Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973 prohibits disability-based discrimination and requires schools to provide accommodations and supports that enable students with disabilities to participate in educational programs and activities. The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) provides broader civil rights protections for individuals with disabilities in schools and other public settings.

The reorganization extends beyond special education administration and also affects federal civil rights enforcement.

Under separate agreements, the Department of Justice will assume responsibility for certain complaint investigations and resolution processes previously handled by the Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights. These include complaints involving alleged violations of federal civil rights laws in schools. Although the Department of Education will retain its statutory authority over these functions, some investigative and enforcement responsibilities will be carried out by Department of Justice personnel.

Supporters note that the Department of Justice already enforces many federal civil rights laws and has extensive experience handling discrimination complaints. Critics argue that education-related civil rights matters are best addressed within the Department of Education because of its specialized expertise in schools and educational programs.

For schools and families, the immediate effects remain uncertain. While the Department of Education has said services will continue and that existing funding and legal requirements remain in place, questions remain about how the changes will affect the administration and oversight of these programs over time.

Schools continue to be responsible for meeting the requirements of IDEA, Section 504, and the Americans with Disabilities Act, including providing eligible students with required services and accommodations.

The reorganization is intended to improve coordination among agencies serving individuals with disabilities while maintaining existing services, funding, and legal protections.

Supporters contend that bringing related responsibilities under a more unified structure could enhance collaboration among federal programs that often support the same children and families. Critics, however, argue that special education and school-based civil rights enforcement are best administered within the Department of Education, citing its specialized expertise in educational policy, school systems, and student support services.

As responsibilities shift among agencies, educators, advocates, and families will be looking for answers to practical questions: How will the agencies coordinate their efforts? How will oversight and enforcement responsibilities be carried out under the new structure? And what effect, if any, will the changes have on the services and protections students receive?

For parents, educators, and advocates, these questions extend beyond government agencies and administrative oversight. The answers are found in classrooms, early intervention programs, and, most importantly, in the lived experiences of students and their families.

As the transition moves forward, many will be watching not only how responsibilities are reassigned, but how effectively the system continues to serve the children it was created to support.

Balance Interrupted

The hardest part of recovery was not pain. It was discovering how much independence depends on balance, and how much balance depends on two working hands.

The disruption started in small places first. Getting dressed became complicated almost immediately. Pulling on a shirt with one functioning arm turned into a slow negotiation with fabric and balance. Waistbands, buttons, hooks, sleeves, and shoes suddenly became obstacles instead of routines.

One hand tried to do everything at once—holding, pulling, adjusting, fastening, and stabilizing. Nothing about it felt easy or natural. It turns out the fashion industry quietly assumes a fully cooperative body, with little consideration for the variations and limitations disability can impose.

For years, dressing had happened without thought. One hand steadied while the other pulled, adjusted, buttoned, or tied. Surgery disrupted that pattern immediately. The sling immobilized one arm while the nerve blocker altered the body’s ability to compensate for the loss. Before discharge, the nurses focused heavily on pain management.

“Stay ahead of the pain,” they repeated. “Take medication before the nerve block wears off.”

Pain was treated as the inevitable part of recovery, waiting just outside the surgical center doors. Instead, the real challenge turned out to be disconnection.

Before surgery, the anesthesiologist explained that the nerve block would temporarily interrupt the pathways carrying pain signals from the surgical site to the brain. The purpose was practical: by numbing the nerves surrounding the shoulder and arm, the body would be spared the immediate surge of post-surgical pain that often follows orthopedic procedures.

What received far less discussion was how profoundly the nerve block could affect movement itself. The arm did not simply feel numb. It felt absent.

Muscles that normally made constant, unconscious adjustments to posture and balance suddenly stopped participating. The shoulder no longer provided reliable feedback about position or movement. Walking became strangely unnatural because part of the body had gone silent while everything else struggled to compensate.

There was no pain, which became the strangest part of the experience.

The absence of pain did not create ease or normalcy. Instead, the body moved with an unfamiliar heaviness and disconnection, as though the normal feedback between movement and sensation had been interrupted. Every step required deliberate attention.

With spastic CP, maintaining balance already requires constant awareness of body position and movement. Walking poles widen the base of support, improve stability, and reduce the physical effort needed to stay upright safely. The nerve block disrupted part of that system. Movements felt delayed and unreliable, as though the connection between intention and movement had been interrupted.

The sling alone altered posture and movement, but the nerve blocker intensified everything further. Muscles that normally stabilized balance had temporarily stepped offline. Spasticity increased because the body was constantly overcorrecting in search of stability. Movements that were usually automatic became stiff, delayed, and hesitant.

People often assume balance comes entirely from the legs, but recovery revealed how much more complex it is. With spastic CP, staying upright depends on constant coordination between muscles, joints, nerves, and the unconscious adjustments the body makes every second to maintain stability. When the nerve block interfered with those signals, the effects extended far beyond the injection site and spread through the entire body.

The reality of that disconnect became obvious while attempting to sit down in a recliner in my living room. My father stood nearby, ready to steady me if necessary, as I lowered myself toward the chair. It should have been simple. Sitting down is an automatic movement, something the body performs thousands of times without effort.

Instead, my body landed awkwardly on the edge of the recliner without fully settling into the seat. Normally, moments like that trigger an immediate correction. Weight shifts, muscles tighten, posture adjusts—small reactions happen automatically before imbalance turns into a fall.

This time, nothing happened.

The downward movement continued without any ability to stop or correct it. No automatic response came. My body slid off the edge of the recliner and onto the floor.

“How am I supposed to get you up?”

My father stood over me beside the recliner, breathing hard, one hand resting against his hip. The strain in his voice carried frustration, but underneath it was worry.

For a moment, neither of us moved. Neither of us fully understood what had happened. There had been no sudden collapse, only an inability to stop the movement once it began. I ended up partly seated on the floor beside the recliner, realizing that something more than muscle strength had been affected. The nerve blocker had disrupted balance, coordination, and the small automatic adjustments that normally kept the body upright.

My father looked down at me, trying to figure out how to lift me without hurting either of us.

“Get a towel,” I said.

“A towel?”

“Slide it under my arms. You can pull me up with it.”

He paused for a second, then nodded and walked down the hallway.

The towel became leverage, then a makeshift lifting strap improvised in the moment. Between the towel, my father’s strength, and my ability to shift just enough weight in the right direction, I managed to work my way back into the chair.

Once seated, staying there made the most sense. The arm needed to remain elevated, and lying flat in bed was unrealistic, so the recliner became both bed and recovery station for the night.

Meals became takeout balanced on a lap tray because standing safely in the kitchen was no longer possible while the effects of the nerve block remained unpredictable. Drinks, food, medication, and ice packs had to be carried over by my father and placed within reach beside the recliner. Before long, the dependence became harder to tolerate than the surgery itself. Every small task required help.

From the recliner, accessibility took on an entirely different meaning. Wide doorways and handrails mattered far less when the body temporarily stopped cooperating. Familiar rooms turned into obstacle courses once balance disappeared. A doorway became a hazard. Sitting down became a transfer. Carrying a cup of coffee became impossible. Nothing about the house had changed, yet everything about mobility had.

That loss of independence extended beyond movement alone. Traditional pants and shoes required more balance, coordination, and energy than I could manage. Velcro tear-away pants and adaptive shoes suddenly made sense in ways they never had before. Adaptive clothing stopped feeling medical and started feeling practical.

By the second day, movement slowly began to return. As the nerve block wore off, walking became steadier and more controlled, and the disconnected heaviness gradually began to fade.

Still, there was almost no pain.

The absence of pain remained the strangest part of recovery. The nurses expected pain. My father expected pain. Every conversation about the surgery and care seemed to assume pain would define the experience once the nerve block disappeared.

It never really did.

Instead, recovery revealed how fragile mobility really is and how quickly independence can disappear after a procedure. Once the repaired arm could participate again, even in small ways, recovery became noticeably easier.

As normal movement slowly returned, the reality of those first days became easier to assess clearly. Near the end of recovery, my father and I finally said out loud what had already become obvious to both of us: if this procedure ever becomes necessary again, discharge home immediately afterward would not be realistic. I could not have managed those first days alone, and my father had pushed himself to provide more physical support than either of us could reasonably expect to repeat.

The issue was not pain. The issue was whether recovery could be done safely at home at all. Safety depended on far more than tolerating discomfort. It meant being able to lower onto a chair or toilet without ending up on the floor. It meant having enough balance to move through the house without turning every doorway into a hazard. It meant having someone physically capable of helping with transfers, meals, medications, and basic movement whenever it became necessary.

The strongest memory from the entire experience is not the surgery itself. It is my father standing over me with a towel twisted in his hands, trying to figure out how to pull me back into the recliner.

Some people call that caregiving.

In this case, it looked a lot like a towel, a recliner, and a father already standing nearby whenever movement became uncertain.

Resources

Are You Ready?

There is something strange about surgery. You know the day is coming. It sits on the calendar for weeks. You talk about it, prepare for it, and think about it. Yet when the day finally arrives, it still feels oddly unreal.

That feeling lasted until I walked through the doors of the surgical center.

My dad and I entered the building and approached the intake desk. The reception area was quiet. There were no crowds and no line of patients waiting to check in. Just the intake clerk behind the desk, my dad beside me, and the awareness that after weeks of preparation, the day had finally arrived.

The questions began immediately.

“Name?”

I answered.

“Date of birth?”

I answered.

“And what procedure are you having today?”

“Ulnar nerve transposition.”

The questions themselves were routine, but the setting made them feel different. Every answer moved time forward. There would be no more consultations, no more discussions about options, and no rescheduling. The next step was surgery.

For months I had been dealing with numbness caused by irritation of the ulnar nerve where it passed through the inside of my elbow. Most people know this nerve because it is responsible for the sensation you feel when you hit your “funny bone.” In reality, there is nothing funny about it.

The numbness affected my left hand and the ring and pinky fingers and served as a constant reminder that something was wrong. My surgeon explained that the concern was not simply numbness.

If the compression continued, there was a risk of permanent nerve damage and loss of function in my hand. His plan was to free the nerve from the area where it was being compressed and reposition it in front of the elbow, moving it to a location where it would no longer be stretched and compressed during ordinary movement.

The explanation made sense. The actual surgery still sounded remarkable. Someone was going to cut into my arm, locate a nerve, move it, and then put everything back together again.

The actual procedure would take less than two hours, involve an operating room full of highly trained professionals, and require a level of trust that becomes much easier to appreciate when you are the one lying on the table.

The intake process took only a few minutes. When it was finished, a nurse appeared and led us through a series of doors into the pre-surgical area. The reception area had been quiet. The pre-surgical area was anything but.

The surgical center contained eight operating rooms, and the pace reflected it. Nurses moved quickly between patients. Monitors beeped. Doors opened and closed. Conversations overlapped as staff coordinated the steady flow of people moving through the system.

Some patients were waiting to go into surgery. Others were returning from it.

Patients sat in recliners throughout the recovery area, dressed in the same gowns and hairnets I would soon wear. Some sat quietly, waiting their turn, while others chatted softly with family members.

A few were just returning from their procedures, slowly emerging from the fog of anesthesia as nurses checked their vital signs and reviewed the instructions that would send them home. It struck me that I was watching both ends of the journey at the same time. One group was waiting while the other had already been through it.

As patients emerged from recovery, I couldn’t help but wonder what they were feeling. Relief? Discomfort? Lingering effects of anesthesia? It was impossible to know.

In a few hours, I would be one of them.

Until that moment, surgery had existed mostly as an appointment on a calendar. I had prepared for it and thought about it for weeks. Watching patients return from recovery changed that. The experience no longer felt distant. By the end of the afternoon, I would be making the same trip back through those doors.

A nurse handed me a folded gown. There is no dignified way to wear a surgical gown, and there is certainly no dignified way to wear a hairnet. After changing with a little assistance and adjusting my less-than-flattering attire, I settled and waited.

As I sat waiting, my mind drifted back to 1986, the last time I had surgery. I remembered the gas mask, being told to count backward, the odd smell, and the moment when everything gradually faded to black. Medicine has changed dramatically since then. There would be no gas this time.

A nurse entered carrying supplies.

“It’s time for the IV.”

Nobody looks forward to hearing those words.

As she prepared my arm, a memory surfaced immediately. The human brain stores the strangest details. I could not remember much about the surgery itself in 1986, but I remembered the burn—that brief sensation when medication enters a vein.

The IV slid into place. The sting was brief. So was the burn.

It was exactly as I remembered.

The nurse secured everything and left me to wait.

Waiting gives your mind too much freedom. You think about the procedure. You think about recovery. You think about everything that could go wrong, and then you deliberately try to think about something else. Fortunately, I didn’t have long to dwell on those thoughts. The door opened and a man stepped inside.

“Hi, I’m Peter.”

Peter was the anesthesiologist.

At that moment, Peter became one of the most important people I would meet that day.

He was calm, professional, and confident without being the least bit arrogant. His confidence seemed to come from years of experience rather than ego, and I found that reassuring. He explained the nerve block and how it would help control pain after surgery.

Unlike the anesthesia that would put me to sleep during the operation, the nerve block was designed to keep my arm numb long after the surgery was finished. To accomplish that, he would inject medication near the nerves that carry signals between the arm and the brain. The injection would be given just above my collarbone. Once the medication took effect, those nerve signals would be temporarily interrupted, preventing pain from reaching my brain.

At least that was my understanding of it.

The idea sounded simple enough. The reality was that someone was about to place a needle near a collection of important nerves in my neck and shoulder area.

Peter used an ultrasound to locate the precise spot. I watched the screen for a few moments, although I had no idea what I was looking at. The injection itself was not particularly painful. More than anything, it felt strange knowing that within a few minutes my arm would no longer feel like my arm.

The sensation slipped away in stages. My arm grew heavier with each passing minute until it felt foreign, like something attached to me rather than part of me. By the time Peter finished, the nerve block had already begun to do its work.

Not long afterward, the words finally came.

“We’re ready for you.”

The trip down the hallway felt different now that surgery waited at the end of it. Not long ago, I’d been walking under my own power. Now I was flat on a stretcher, watching ceiling tiles slide overhead one after another.

Before they wheeled me into the operating room, my surgeon appeared beside the stretcher.

We exchanged quick greetings, and then I asked him a question.

“How are you?”

Then I followed it with another.

“Are you ready?”

It sounded like casual conversation, but it wasn’t.

What I really meant was this: Are you focused today? Are you sharp? Are you bringing your best game? Because in a few minutes you are going to cut into my arm.

If he was surprised, he did not show it.

His answer came immediately.

“Yes. I’m ready.”

There was no hesitation in his voice.

Oddly enough, that was exactly what I needed to hear.

Inside the operating room, everything seemed brighter. Large lights hung overhead. Monitors glowed. Equipment surrounded me. People moved around the room with quick efficiency.

What surprised me was the music.

A song was playing somewhere in the room. I knew it immediately. The melody was familiar. The voice was familiar. The artist’s name, however, refused to come to me.

For a few minutes I tried to figure it out. It seems like an odd thing to focus on in an operating room, yet it remains one of the clearest details from that day. My attention never settled on the equipment, the monitors, or the bright lights overhead.

I remember trying to identify the song. I never figured it out. Then the nurses began preparing the sterile field, and my attention returned to the reason I was there.

Blue surgical drapes appeared around me, creating a barrier between the surgical site and everything else in the room. Soon one of the drapes was positioned above me, limiting my view. I heard a nurse mention cutting openings in the sterile drapes so the surgical team could access only the exact area where they would be working.

The surgical preparation came next. An antiseptic solution was poured and spread over my arm. I could not see exactly what they were doing, but I knew they were sterilizing the surgical site before making the incision.

As the antiseptic coated my arm, the reality of what was about to happen sank in. The surgeon held my arm, carefully positioning it and locating the precise spot where he would begin. Then something unexpected happened.

I felt something.

It was not pain, but pressure and touch, sensations clear enough to get my attention. “Hey, I feel that,” I said. The room paused for a beat. “I don’t think I should feel that.” More medication was added to the IV without delay. Its effect was immediate. One moment I was awake. The next, I was not.

There was no drifting, no countdown, no clear moment when consciousness disappeared. One moment, I was beneath blue surgical drapes, listening to the conversations around me.

The next, I was opening my eyes in recovery.

The clock read approximately 4:30 PM. More than three hours had disappeared. I blinked, looked around, and saw my dad sitting nearby. Then I looked down and saw my arm secured in a heavy sling.

A nurse arrived with graham crackers and water. After hours without food, the crackers disappeared quickly. The nurse checked on me regularly, and each time she asked the same question: how was the pain? So far, there was none. The nerve block was still holding strong. But lying still in recovery was one thing. The real challenge would begin when I had to move.

The staff wheeled in a transfer chair and suggested it was time to sit up. On the surface, it seemed like a simple request. Yet the anesthesia and nerve block had left me disconnected from my body. My limbs felt weighted down, and every movement lagged behind my intentions.

Two nurses were called in to help. They patiently assisted me into the chair and later helped me get dressed. Tasks that normally would have taken only a few minutes suddenly required extra hands and careful coordination.

One nurse explained that the nerve block could leave my arm numb for as long as forty-eight hours.

They kept returning to the same question about pain, and each time my answer stayed the same. I still had none.

Earlier that day, I had watched other patients come through recovery and wondered what they were feeling behind their tired expressions. Relief? Discomfort? Disorientation? A few hours later, I found myself moving through the same doors I had watched them cross. Before surgery, I had asked my surgeon a simple question:

“Are you ready?”

His answer came without hesitation.

“Yes.”

At the time, I needed to hear it.

Looking back, the surgeon had every reason to sound confident. The operation was finished, the nerve block was working, and I was awake and preparing to go home. Just a few hours earlier, I had arrived at the surgical center unsure of what the day would bring. Now Dad and I were making our way through the parking lot.

The surgery was over. The real challenge was only beginning: recovery.

Poets Walk

Nothing stays as it is for long. The sky changes, shadows lengthen, and light shifts across water. What seems lasting is often in motion, changing in ways that are easy to miss until they are gone.

Clouds drift, reflections fade, and the day gradually yields to evening. What remains are traces: fragments of light, passing impressions, and beauty that cannot be held.

Poets Walk

By Kerry A. Wiley

Blue skies
over blue water,
clouds write letters
no one can hold.

Summer arrives
in ribbons of gold.

Blue skies,
over blue water.

Lavender bends in the wind,
and words float,
unspoken.

A gate stands open
where no fence remains.

The path descends
through pockets of shade,
keeping
what the sun passed over.

The lake gathers
what the day forgets,

fragments of cloud,
small disturbances of light,
a voice carried halfway
across the water.

Nothing arrives intact.

Even the light
seems borrowed.

Lavender bends again,
releasing its scent
as the light thins.

Blue skies,
over blue water.

The clouds have changed places.

The letters they were writing
remain unfinished.

A small wind moves through.

By evening,
the water holds
the last of the light.