Like you, I live with many lenses: mountain climber, doctor, child, wayfarer, mother, writer, weed-puller, teacher, wife. Like you, I have had many losses as well as days of pinch-arm marvel. I trained as a journalist and editor, and then as a physician, before taking a left turn into poetry.

Before everything changed, I was a faculty member at the University of California, San Francisco, teaching and mentoring students in international, low-resource settings. My belief in global health grew out of my work and connections with India, the Americas, Liberia, Haiti, and China. Then one day, a shocking phone call collapsed any pursuit of health engagement or action.

My 24-year-old son, a mountaineer/peace-and-conflict scholar/veteran, had passed away. Poems demanded to be written. They brought relief and healing, as did hills encircled by warm grass, tree spirits, and arms of sky. Years have wandered past. Poems continue to emerge, as the tangles of day slip into light.