©2019 by www.jessicalatham.com.



crown of thorns

the things we make

with our hands

season’s end 

the things we sow

but don't harvest 

blackout curtains

it could be

any moon

a gentle sea rain

on blankets of sand 

untouched for days...

there is sacredness

in forgotten things 

age old lessons

becoming the river

that leads to the sea

how slowly

broken bits of leaf


From the Sky

There are no words I can speak other than time. The sweet words of space say everything inside of me. Look at the fallen leaf. Pulling it from high branches requires such effort. But when it falls when ready it dances with such grace often times gently before your feet. Pick me up then and walk me home in your hands as this surprise fell just for you today from the sky. I fall one thousand times a day for you. Each time you want to tug my hand, think of the sad face of the leaf – how it crumbles when moved with force. Remember the miracles that fall with time.

the building 
of a song

“Poetry allows me to reach out and share my world with others.  I have always believed that while writing is a solitary activity, poetry is essentially about connecting with others.  When you write, you want it to touch another person with your words.”

                    - Vuong Vu

...Just the other morning, while eating breakfast, my toddler set down his fork, cupped my chin with his tiny hands, and looked into my eyes. He then continued eating moments later. He didn’t need to say, “I love you.” I knew it right then.

I watch as your hands

trace petals

their delicate veins

so much like the ways

to your heart

the many cells at work 

for the hummingbird in flight...

your body 

making its way back

to brilliance

Just seconds old, a baby noses his way
to his mother’s breast
the same way a butterfly knows
how to unearth a blossom.
A toddler only learns to walk
by feeling the many ways of falling.
The heart only knows wholeness
after heartbreak shatters one
into tiny pieces.
There are millions of paths
toward living and loving
but we need not anyone’s
compass other than our own.
Look what happens
when an acorn digs its way
into the earth and dives deep
into darkness
despite what the starling
claims to know.

...On the third floor of the hospital, we arrive – some of us, awkwardly, with over-packed strollers, diapers and formula supplies oozing out – others with only child in a sling on our still bloated frames. Our eyes are hollowed, puffy, sleep deprived. There in the open room, we are guided through a line up. This way, please. A nurse’s arm reaches out like a chauffeur; it touches one of our backs and we wonder when someone last held our tender places. We move forward and follow the others, first disrobing our bundled infants, hefty diapers and all. It is crucial to get an accurate starting weight. Some babies’ faces scrunch and let out a whimper, others wail immediately, and some remain as silent as they began. All of them, naked and exposed are placed on a scale, a clear plastic tray that holds their day, week and month old bodies. Numbers are noted and fresh diapers are fastened. Onesies and leggings, still warm, slide over limber arms, legs and bellies...