When The Sky Fell, Love Remained

 A Poem of Remembrance, Hope, and Love

 

Twenty-five years ago,

the morning arrived

wearing its ordinary face.

 

Coffee.

Traffic.

Briefcases.

Elevators rising

through a blue September sky.

 

People hurried toward their futures

without knowing

the future had already changed.

 

And then—

 

the sky broke.

 

Not with thunder,

not with lightning,

but with fire.

 

Steel opened its mouth.

Glass became rain.

Smoke climbed upward

as though the earth itself

were grieving.

 

And for one terrible moment,

we watched the impossible

become real.

 

We watched towers fall

and felt something inside ourselves

fall with them.

 

What do you call

the moment innocence leaves?

 

What name do you give

the instant you understand

that the world you believed in

was partly an illusion?

 

Perhaps it was a veil—

 

thin as breath,

invisible as faith—

 

that had always hung

between us and the darkness.

 

We thought oceans were borders

strong enough to hold back terror.

 

We thought steel was permanence.

 

We thought certain places

could not be touched.

 

We thought tomorrow

was promised

simply because yesterday

had arrived.

 

Then September came

and taught us otherwise.

 

Far away in Hawaii,

the images seemed unreal—

a terrible film

without a beginning

and without an ending.

 

But beneath that distance

was the terrible knowledge:

 

New York was home

to people we knew.

 

Friends.

Family.

Familiar faces

whose names suddenly became

questions.

 

Were they there?

 

Were they safe?

 

Did they make it out?

 

And how small

the distance can be

between life and death—

 

a train arriving late,

an elevator taking longer,

a meeting moved

by fifteen minutes,

a morning altered

by the smallest turn of fate.

 

Lives balanced

on seconds.

 

Thousands of futures

erased between

one heartbeat

and the next.

 

And Washington—

 

another wound

in the heart of the nation.

 

The Pentagon burning.

 

Another plane

falling from the morning.

 

And somewhere above Pennsylvania,

ordinary people

looked into extraordinary darkness

and found within themselves

a courage greater than fear.

 

They rose.

 

They resisted.

 

They chose to fight

for the lives of strangers below.

 

Their courage

became part of the American sky.

 

And then—

 

the silence.

 

After the sirens.

 

After the screams.

 

After the towers

had become mountains of dust.

 

Silence filled with names.

 

Names whispered

into telephones.

 

Names spoken

at kitchen tables.

 

Names printed

beneath photographs

held by trembling hands.

 

Because every person lost

was someone's world.

 

Someone's first love.

 

Someone's child.

 

Someone's parent.

 

Someone's best friend.

 

Someone who had left home

that morning

believing they would return.

 

There are numbers

we remember.

 

But numbers cannot tell us

about the empty chair,

the unopened gift,

the birthday that came

without them.

 

They cannot tell us

about the child

who grew older

without a parent,

 

or the mother

who kept a bedroom

just as it was.

 

Grief is not a monument.

 

It is a room

we learn to live inside.

 

And that morning

an entire nation

entered that room.

 

We lost people.

 

We also lost

the illusion of invulnerability.

 

The belief that distance

meant safety.

 

That walls could protect us

from every darkness.

 

That history

happened somewhere else.

 

The veil fell.

 

And beneath it

was a world more fragile

than we had wanted to believe.

 

Afterward,

freedom wore a different face.

 

The sky became a place

we questioned.

 

Airports became thresholds.

 

Fear became

a quiet companion.

 

Yet freedom is not

the absence of danger.

 

It is the courage

to keep loving,

 

to keep living,

 

to keep reaching

for tomorrow

when tomorrow

is no longer guaranteed.

 

And still—

 

morning came.

 

The sun rose

over a wounded country.

 

Hands reached

through dust.

 

Firefighters climbed

toward danger.

 

Strangers carried strangers.

 

People gave blood.

 

People prayed.

 

People searched.

 

And people loved.

 

In the ashes,

the human heart

was still beating.

 

Twenty-five years have passed.

 

The towers are gone.

 

The smoke is gone.

 

But some mornings

still belong to September.

 

Some skies

still carry the memory.

 

Some silences

still have names.

 

So today,

as we remember those

whose lives were taken,

let us also remember

how precious life is—

 

how quickly everything

can change,

 

how fragile our days are,

 

and how much love

we still must give.

 

 

Katya and Tiki: Adventures in Aloha

 Katya and Tiki: Adventures in Aloha

On a sunny Hawaiian morning,

with palm trees swaying bright,

pounced Katya, a fluffy little cat

who loved adventure day and night.

She chased butterflies, climbed tall trees,

and explored places marked “No cats allowed!”

One day beside the shore,

she found something strange and proud.

 

Eight feet tall beneath a tree,

a wooden giant stood.

Katya looked up and gasped,

“What a very big cat—how good!”

 

“I’m NOT a cat!” he boomed.

 

Katya jumped. “You TALK?!”

 

“I’m Tiki,” the giant said.

“I’ve watched this beach for years.

And I’ve learned something important:

kindness comes back when shared.”

 

“Well, let’s test it!” said Katya.

 

So Katya and Tiki began their kindness quest.

 

They found a boy whose kite

was stuck high in a palm.

Tiki was tall but stiff as stone,

so Katya climbed the tree

and brought the kite back down.

 

“Thanks!” cried the boy.

 

Katya purred. Tiki grinned.

 

“That felt good!”

 

So they kept going.

 

They helped a turtle reach the sea,

shared lunch with a hungry man,

and rescued a baby bird

that had fallen from its nest.

 

Of course, helping wasn’t always easy.

 

Once, Katya climbed onto Tiki’s head.

 

“Come down!” he cried.

 

“Nope. I like the view!”

 

“You’re sitting on my eyebrows!”

 

“They’re comfy.”

 

Another time, Tiki got stuck in a garden gate.

He wiggled left and right.

 

“This may take eight years,” Katya teased.

 

Tiki groaned as Katya laughed

and tumbled into a bush.

 

But everywhere they went,

they kept looking for someone to help.

 

Then something wonderful happened.

 

The boy they helped shared kindness with another child.

A fisherman shared his catch.

A gardener planted flowers for everyone.

 

One small kindness became many.

 

Katya blinked.

 

“Do you see it too?”

 

Tiki smiled.

“Kindness spreads from one heart to another.”

 

That evening, beneath a pink-and-golden sky,

Katya curled beside Tiki’s feet.

 

“Do you think we’re making a difference?”

 

“Yes,” said Tiki. “I’m sure.”

 

Katya stretched her paws.

 

“Then tomorrow, we’ll find someone new!”

 

Tiki laughed. “Tomorrow?”

 

“Of course! Adventures don’t take days off—

and neither does kindness!”

 

So beneath the moon and stars,

the tiny cat and giant friend wandered on,

leaving little ripples of kindness wherever they went.

 

For Katya and Tiki had learned something true:

 

The biggest adventures can start very small—

with a paw, a helping hand, a smile,

or simply with you.

Golf, Seriously

 Improvement

I’d been improving

for six consecutive years

at a measured pace.

Sadly, that improvement veered

tracking south towards Oahu. 

…

The Search

I lost my golf ball

somewhere near the tenth fairway

deep in a leafy crevice.

Three women helped me to search,

we found three balls and a cap.

…

Serenity

Golf teaches patience

and restrained humility.

It teaches us much

mostly while standing clueless

beside a ball in a bush.

…

The Good Shot

A perfect ball rolls

straight, clean, and beautifully struck.

Then I watch it disappear 

beyond the small white marker

where apparently joy ends.

…

Golf Pondered

 Technique

I studied the swing

Its angles, its direction

Its refined physics.

Then I discovered the trees

had already studied me.

…

The Mental Game

Golf is mostly mental

The professionals say this

which is reassuring.

Because my physical game

has requested no comment.

…

The Lie

The ball lands on the green

According to the rules, it seems

This is called a lie.

A bizarre choice of language

given the circumstances.

…

The Nineteenth

After eighteen holes

you proceed to the clubhouse

to discuss the round

with those who saw none of it

and understand completely.

I Like Golf

 I Like Golf

It is challenging

mentally and physically.

I think when cited

that it was a good walk, spoiled

Well, if you wanted to walk—

…

A Good Walk

Golf is a fine walk

though one carries several clubs

for reasons unknown.

And occasionally strikes

balls into a new county.

…

The Game

I address the ball

With dignity and intent

The ball remains still

This is considered progress

Until my evil twin swings.

…

Nature

I enjoy golf most

When surrounded by green fields

Birdsong, calm breezes.

And the disturbing knowledge

my ball is out there, hiding.

Ready for Love

Ready for Love

 

Is it human nature

to lean toward the cliff’s bright edge

just before the hero arrives—

to stand where stone gives way to sky,

where the hawk circles its patient question,

where the wind lifts the hair from our faces

and whispers, not yet?

To mistake the storm cloud for an ending,

the falling leaf for a farewell,

when perhaps the world is only turning its weather,

asking us to wait for the rain to pass?

 

Every cliffhanger is a trail marker,

a small wooden arrow weathered by seasons,

half-hidden among the pines,

pointing through the green hush of the forest,

suggesting there may be a way through

if we give the path time to appear.

 

Sometimes the trail disappears beneath snow.

Sometimes the river rises

and makes us question the crossing.

Sometimes roots reach across the earth

like old hands reminding us

that even trees must learn

where to place their weight.

 

Yes, it is darkest before dawn,

but dawn is already loosening

its gold ribbon behind the hills.

The eastern sky is paling

like a flower beginning to open.

Good decisions ask for clear eyes,

a little logic, a little math,

and the humility to read the weather—

to know when the clouds are gathering

and when they are only passing.

 

A winter hike needs warm layers,

steady boots, and cleats that bite the ice;

the mountain welcomes wonder,

but asks us to come prepared.

The pines do not hurry toward spring.

The river does not apologize for changing course.

The glacier moves almost invisibly,

and still it shapes the valley.

 

Even a green fairway has its lessons:

practice, patience, the hush before a swing,

the small white ball lifted briefly into sunlight

before gravity calls it home.

The meadow does not demand perfection

from every blade of grass.

It simply keeps growing.

 

Willy-nilly will not carry us home—

yet joy is no less necessary.

Let laughter lift like birds from the grass;

let wonder move through us like warm rain.

Let presence be our compass,

hope our north star,

and love the fire we carry

when the trail grows cold.

 

One careful step, then another:

this is how the trail becomes a life.

This is how roots find their way through stone,

how rivers carve their names into canyons,

how seeds split themselves open

in the dark because something in them

trusts the light.

 

Outside, the earth opens its green book:

fresh-cut grass is a bright new page,

sunlight lays a warm hand on the face,

and soil beneath our palms reminds us

we belong to something patient and alive.

 

The garden teaches its quiet mathematics:

what is buried is not necessarily lost.

A bulb sleeps underground

while winter passes overhead.

Rain gathers in the hollow places.

Roots drink what the surface cannot see.

 

This is not cliché; it is elemental—

the honest arithmetic of breath and sky,

the science of roots reaching for rain,

the tide returning to the shore,

the moon pulling silver from the water,

the heart remembering it was made to grow.

 

So I will not leap from the story too soon.

I will not confuse the precipice with destiny

or mistake one dark season for the whole climate.

 

I will walk on—toward the clearing,

past the last stand of trees,

where the path widens beneath my feet,

where the meadow opens like a held breath,

where birds rise from the tall grass

and sunlight spills over everything.

 

There, beyond the bend,

the whole wide world is waiting—

green, sunlit, breathing,

open as sky after rain,

 

ready for love. 

Read the Weather

 Read the Weather

 

When every wind begins to smell of spring,

remember: thawing rivers still run deep.

A path may flower brightly at its mouth,

then lose its name beneath the tangled vines.

Now is no time to leave the compass home

or drift wherever easy currents lean.

Keep patience like a map within your coat;

read every bend before you choose the road.

Let questions be the stakes around young trees,

so roots grow straight when restless weather turns.

Test offered fruit by seed and season both;

not every orchard keeps the sign it wears.

And when the rain has spoiled the planned-out day,

set jars beneath the eaves and save the storm.

Plant what can flourish in the softened ground;

let loss become the water roots can use.

Hope is the seed that waits beneath the frost,

unseen, but holding April in its heart.

It drinks the dark and gathers quiet strength,

then lifts a green reply toward the light.

For morning comes to those who tend the dark,

who keep one window open to the east,

and greet the sun with hands already sown.