Every day he comes and goes
Like a beggar on the street,
With no way to turn
But the direction from which he came.
If the streets were carpeted—
Soft to the touch—
The tread of his soles would
Scratch holes through the path
He has
Worn.
Worn out, the man with the
Briefcase breathes heavily
Under the sun and
Under the moon,
Inhaling and
Exhaling as he travels,
Blind as he goes—
Not because he has no head,
But because he feels no pain
Or joy.
He is numb.
Numb since the day she
Walked away,
And numb when he remembers
The way
Her hips sway—
This way and that.
And numb when he
Thinks of her name but cannot
Say it—
Silent.
Silently, the bird in his soul—
The bird whose name is
Alive—
Perches at the edge of her
Cage whose name is
Life,
And wishes for the day
She might once again
Begin
To
Fly.
Flying in the air
Above the man
Is a bird whose name is
Love.
He flies up high and
Then he dips
And twirls,
Like the tail of a kite giggling
In the wind,
Awaiting the moment when
The Man
Opens his coat and
Sits on his bench
And sleeps—
Like a beggar on the street
Dreaming.
Dreaming of her face—
The only face that is
Trapped inside the Man's soul.
Love watches with a keen and
Clever eye.
In one moment—
A moment whose approach is slow,
Whose arrival is timed
By the gods,
Whose watches are synchronized
To the beating of
Bird and human hearts—
The vigilant bird
Sees
The coat fall open,
Sees
The Man sit down on his bench,
Sees
Him close his eyes and
Seizes his
Freedom.
“Freedom does not live in the sky,”
He sings.
“Freedom lives inside Alive.”
Love drifts down
Through blue and through clouds
And alights
With bars between himself and
Her—
The one who holds his
Heart
Inside of her,
Inside a cage.
The one who
Knew he would
Come.
“Come to me every day,”
She wanted to say.
But instead, she said,
“You must not waste the time
Waiting by my side,
When all the world
Sprawls before your gaze.”
Love ruffled his feathers
And looked into her eyes.
“Until you are here with
Me—
Just you and me—
I will come and sit with you
Every day.”
Every day, Love came,
Just as he said he would,
And the earth turned slowly
From summer
To autumn
To winter
To spring.
Their stories grew, and
The details they knew
Poured through the bars
Like drops of water
Flowing
From watering cans,
Growing their love,
Growing him and growing
Her.
Her days inside,
Her will to survive—
Alive and Love
Together traveled through,
Until the day
The Man stepped anew
Off his carpet of same,
Tattered and
Worn through by
His shoes—
First one and then two—
Onto a path where four
Could move:
His loafers and
Her high heels of
Blue.
Blue turned to joy,
Joy turned to alive,
And Alive for the first time
Flew.
The Man let her fly,
As his heart said
Goodbye to the
Pain that was keeping
Alive inside the cage,
Inside his
Soul.
Souls in the air,
Free with
Togetherness,
No longer bound
But soaring high,
Strengthened by
The time in the cage
And by flying
Side
By
Side.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Tag: AmWriting
Poem: Ice
The moment before, he knew.
She knew it, too—but she didn’t know
What it meant.
He had spent all he had in love
And in time—
For time is all we have to spend—
Not knowing that one second would turn into
Years.
The moment before, he felt.
She felt it, too, but it was in her mind—
What it meant.
Dripping with memories, mundane,
Like coffee brewing slowly—
For love steeps one drop at a time—
Her daydreams were painted in
Love.
The moment before, he released.
She released, too, but she didn’t expect
What it meant.
Embracing and letting go, to embrace again,
Was like brushing her teeth—
For some rituals cleanse even as they return—
He knew her expectation and knew he would
Fail.
In the moment, he could smell her.
She could smell her, too—and she knew
What it meant.
He started a fire between his head
And his heart—
For the heart stokes the kindling the mind provides—
But the embers burned deeper than he
Expected.
In the moment, he could see the glow.
She could see it, too, and she knew
What it meant.
The lingering warmth of his hand on her back
Felt like ice—
For ice signals death—
The frigidity was new but not exactly
New.
In the moment, his conscience writhed.
She writhed a little, too, and she knew
What it meant.
His goodbye lingered near,
Like a rattling snake—
For snakes wait, and then they strike—
And she stiffened her heart, bracing for
The end.
The moment was gone. The seconds counted
And done.
The hem of her gown swished away;
His countenance melted
Like fire melts ice,
And ice turns to water,
And fire boils it all to steam.
The end was the beginning.
The beginning was now.
He sat on the ground.
He looked to the sky.
The moon turned out its lamp—
And he knew what it meant.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
When Fairness Fails: What Forgiveness Teaches Us About Mercy
By Jill Szoo Wilson
Fairness is one of the first moral currencies we learn to spend. Long before we master mercy, we can cry That’s not fair! with the conviction of a tiny philosopher. The playground, after all, doubles as humanity’s first courtroom. Someone cuts in line for the slide, and suddenly the entire social order collapses. Justice must be restored, preferably before recess ends.
A child’s attempt to make sense of harm and hope in miniature is a first draft of moral reasoning. Fairness helps us name wrongs, negotiate rules, and build the fragile beginnings of trust. Civilization, in its earliest form, probably started over a disputed turn on the swings.
Still, fairness only works when everyone plays by the rules. When someone breaks them, what are we supposed to do? As children, we stomp off the field or call for backup—“Mom!” “Teacher!” “Ref!”—someone who can step in and make it right. Those are the early rituals of justice. But what happens when the whistle never blows, or the person who hurt us doesn’t make it right? Some wrongs go deeper than rules. They leave distance where there used to be closeness, even a shift in who we are. Fairness can fix the rules, but it can’t fix the relationship.
What follows are reflections on forgiveness: psychological, scientific, artistic, and theological. Not prescriptions, but explorations. Because fairness is the language of balance, while forgiveness speaks a dialect of grace that refuses translation.
Fairness keeps order; forgiveness keeps us human. While playground quarrels eventually fade, the instinct to keep score doesn’t. We carry it into adulthood, dressed in the language of boundaries, accountability, and justice. We say we’ve “moved on,” but the mind rarely gets the memo. It keeps a ledger even when the heart wants peace. Modern psychology has a name for this: rumination. The ancients simply called it remembering. Either way, forgiveness begins at the border between what we can’t forget and what we no longer wish to carry.
The Psychological View: The Mind and Its Loops
Modern psychology approaches forgiveness as a cognitive and emotional release rather than a strictly moral act. Dr. Everett Worthington, who has spent decades studying the subject, describes two distinct processes: decisional forgiveness, the conscious choice to stop pursuing revenge, and emotional forgiveness, the gradual softening of the heart’s automatic resistance. The two often unfold at different speeds, one emerging from thought and the other from time.
Neuroscience, the study of how the brain and nervous system shape thought, emotion, and behavior, adds another layer to the portrait. When anger is rehearsed, the brain’s limbic system activates as though the offense is still happening. The body does not easily distinguish between a memory and an event; to the nervous system, remembering pain and experiencing it are nearly the same. Each mental replay of the story re-ignites the stress response: the heart quickens, cortisol levels rise, muscles tighten, and breathing shortens. Over time, the brain begins to associate safety itself with vigilance. The mind learns that to stay alert is to stay alive.
Forgiveness, then, becomes a kind of neurological retraining. It is a deliberate effort to interrupt the loop that binds pain to identity. In clinical practice, therapists often describe forgiveness as the gradual release of hypervigilance rather than an act of forgetting. The goal is to remember without reliving. Through reframing, deep breathing, prayer, or contemplative awareness, the body learns that danger has passed. The nervous system, once tuned to defense, begins to trust again. The mind, which has carried the story of pain like a live wire, slowly cools, allowing space for calm to return.
Still, even within psychology, forgiveness remains mysterious because it straddles intellect and intuition. It can’t be forced, and it doesn’t appear on command. Readiness comes casually, more like the slow shifting of light across a room than a sudden change of weather. It arrives when the cost of carrying pain outweighs the fear of setting it down.
The Scientific View: What the Body Knows
The body is a faithful historian. It records what the mind tries to archive, storing unfinished stories in muscle and breath. Emotional pain, left unresolved, weaves itself into posture and heartbeat until it becomes a quiet rhythm beneath awareness. Chronic resentment has been shown to raise cortisol, narrow the arteries, and disrupt the delicate cadence of sleep (Mayo Clinic, 2022). Even anger held in silence leaves its mark: a jaw set for battle, shoulders lifted as if bracing for a blow. Over time, vigilance begins to imitate safety. The body responds to the echo of harm as though the harm were happening again.
Studies from the Stanford Forgiveness Project and the Mayo Clinic confirm what poets suspected long before data caught up: forgiveness is good for your health. In research led by Dr. Frederic Luskin, participants who practiced sustained forgiveness exercises reported lower stress levels, reduced blood pressure, and a greater sense of vitality and purpose (Luskin, 2003). The heart rate steadied. Breathing deepened. The parasympathetic nervous system—the body’s rest-and-repair mechanism—reawakened. When energy is no longer burned in defense, healing begins to rise to the surface like a long-held breath released.
Science often names this moment homeostasis restored: the body’s return to balance after a prolonged alarm. Yet there is poetry in that physiology. As adrenaline recedes, blood flow increases to the prefrontal cortex, the region responsible for empathy, imagination, and moral reasoning (Davidson & McEwen, 2012). Forgiveness, in this sense, literally makes room for thought. The mind, freed from its defensive crouch, can turn toward creation again!
Further studies at Harvard Medical School show that forgiveness lowers the intensity of rumination, which is defined as the mental replay of pain that sustains anxiety and depression (Toussaint et al., 2016). As forgiveness increases, so do emotional regulation, compassion, and self-understanding. The neurochemical shifts that accompany this process—the rise of serotonin, oxytocin, and dopamine—mirror what theology has always known intuitively: peace has a pulse.
The language of biology cannot fully capture mercy’s mystery, but it nods in agreement. The data point and the psalm say the same thing in different tongues: bitterness is exhausting, and peace restores breath.
The Artistic View: What Story Teaches
If science tells us what forgiveness does, art shows us what it feels like. Story, painting, music, and theatre have been charting mercy long before the lab coat came on the scene. The arts, at their best, don’t offer conclusions so much as rehearsals for compassion. They let us practice seeing the world as if we were not the center of it.
Across centuries, artists have returned to the same paradox: that true release begins with recognition, that we must face what wounds us before we can let it go. Before there can be reconciliation, there must be sight. In theatre, we call this “see something, go to it.” A character can’t transform until they look directly at what they most want to avoid, which in fairness, is also true for the rest of us. The moment of seeing becomes the hinge between chaos and calm, the instant when self-defense gives way to understanding.
Shakespeare understood this idea better than most. In The Tempest, Prospero spends years nursing the perfect grudge—a full-bodied vintage of resentment aged on a remote island. When his enemies are finally within reach, however, vengeance no longer satisfies. What changes is not his memory of the wound but his perception of what keeping it costs him. By the end, his forgiveness frees everyone, himself included. Prospero’s great spell isn’t the one that conjures storms; it’s the one that breaks them.
Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman tells the same story from the opposite direction. Willy Loman spends his life mistaking performance for love, selling charm as success, rehearsing confidence he does not feel, and measuring worth in applause that never lasts. When the illusion collapses, his son Biff must decide what to do with the disappointment that remains. In the play’s final moments, standing by his father’s grave, Biff says quietly, “He had the wrong dreams. All, all wrong.” It sounds like condemnation, but it’s something closer to release. For the first time, he sees his father not as idol or enemy, but as a man, confused, frightened, and human. That clarity is the beginning of mercy.
Theatre lets us watch this recognition from a safe distance. We sit in the dark, watching someone else wrestle with the same ghosts we have been dodging at home. In that strange alchemy, something shifts. We learn to see both our own flaws and those of the people we love with gentler eyes. Forgiveness, like theatre, depends on presence. It asks us to stay in the light long enough for truth to take shape so we can look at what wounds us until it becomes something we can understand.
Art doesn’t tell us how to forgive; it simply lets us imagine that we could. The gallery, the concert hall, and the stage are all rehearsal rooms for mercy. They remind us, kindly, that we’re all works in progress and that sometimes, the best apology is a story told well enough to make us listen.
The Theological View: When Justice Turns Toward Grace
The story of forgiveness begins in a garden where trust breaks and fear takes its place. When Adam and Eve eat the fruit, they hide among the trees. God’s first response to sin is pursuit, not punishment. “But the Lord God called to the man and said to him, ‘Where are you?’ ” (Genesis 3:9). That question has echoed through every century since. From the beginning, divine justice speaks with the voice of mercy.
By the time Cain and Abel bring their offerings, the seeds of comparison have already taken root. “And the Lord had regard for Abel and his offering, but for Cain and his offering he had no regard” (Genesis 4:4–5). Envy rises, and God speaks again, not with condemnation but with warning and grace: “If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is crouching at the door. Its desire is contrary to you, but you must rule over it” (Genesis 4:7). Yet Cain resists correction. Pride overcomes humility, and the first human family is torn apart. The sin is more than violence; it is the refusal to trust the goodness of God.
That same resistance runs through every generation. Whenever love seems uneven, pride still resists grace. Humanity reaches for fairness when what it needs is mercy. We grow older, but we keep measuring ourselves against others. We call it success or reward, yet beneath it lies the same belief that effort should equal outcome.
In the parable of the prodigal son, Jesus brings this struggle home, where fairness and love collide. The elder brother protests, “Look, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command, yet you never gave me a young goat, that I might celebrate with my friends” (Luke 15:29). His reasoning is mathematically sound and spiritually hollow. Fairness asks to be recognized; love asks to be shared. The father answers, “It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found” (Luke 15:32). With that, the ledger burns and the story becomes a feast.
Forgiveness, in this light, is the fulfillment of justice rather than its suspension. On the cross, balance does not return to its old shape; it is made new. Jesus prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). The world’s scales of fairness cannot contain such love. The innocent bears the guilt so that the guilty may live. Through His death and resurrection, a new creation begins: “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17).
To forgive is not weakness but obedience to Christ. It is participation in His strength, a living reflection of His mercy. In forgiveness, we join the movement of the Triune God who acts as one—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—calling, redeeming, and renewing all things. This is the rhythm of redemption, the divine mercy that restores the world.
Across every field, forgiveness reveals its pattern. Psychology traces it in the mind, science measures it in the body, art renders it in story and song, and theology anchors it in the heart of God. Together, they show that forgiveness is not the end of justice but its perfection. It steadies the mind, calms the body, restores imagination, and opens the soul to grace. Fairness seeks balance; forgiveness seeks resurrection. Fairness tallies what was lost; forgiveness restores what can live again.
For more essays by Jill Szoo Wilson, visit my Substack.
Poem: Humility
Every man must
Understand the soul
Inside the body
He sees looking back
From the glass
The surface only—
Not enough—
It is the flow of
Significance
And love
Just below
That holds his All together:
Every woman too.
With oxygen rushing in
Carbon dioxide spilling out
Like a water fall
Urging the river to flow
The body,
Which holds the soul,
Is made new
Every moment of the day—
A heart receiving
Old blood and
Then rejuvenating—
But dying all the time:
Our flesh holds it in but
It does not stay.
When the frame
Which holds the true art
Inside
Receives an idol’s praise—
Achievement
Acceptance
Affluence and
Ability—
An idol’s pace becomes
The engine of a train
And chugs the smoke
Of more and
Further an
Aggrandizement
Of I or me and
Me and me
Echoing the words
He wishes he believed.
It is often
Imagined
That the head held highest
The chest that is full
The voice that charges into the room
Like a bull knocking
Hands together to
Produce his own
Applause
Deserves the loudest
Respect—
Oh no.
Instead . . .
It is the man
Who knows his soul—
The smudges of grey
The shadow applied
With a line of paint
Too thick
To hide—
Who scatters his Joy
When others
Have won and
Seeks the
Truth
Of his weakness
With no trace of Pride.
A lowering of the head—
Not to be served
But to serve—
Imbues the hues
Of the soul
With radiance
Passion
And, besides,
Brings peace and life
To his bones.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
The Garden Between Us: On the Moral Work of Communication
By Jill Szoo Wilson
No Kings protests. Israel and Palestine peace talks. The Mayoral debate in New York City. And somewhere between those headlines, a viral argument about whether pumpkin spice season begins too early.
What a week!
During a class discussion on the topic of ethical communication, one of my students made an observation that stayed with me:
“Sometimes I walk away from a conversation with one of my friends or family members, and I think they really understood what I was saying. Then, like a week later, I’ll see something they post on social media and realize — whoa — we weren’t even in the same universe. How do you know if someone actually gets what you’re saying?”
There was real frustration in her voice as she grappled intellectually and emotionally with how to translate effective communication skills from the classroom to real-world relationships and conversations that truly matter to her.
Her question strikes at the heart of communication theory itself. Every major model—from Claude Shannon and Warren Weaver’s early work in information theory to the later transactional and constructivist frameworks—grapples with the same problem she voiced: how does meaning move from one mind to another without distortion? Communication is never just about speaking clearly; it’s about whether understanding travels intact from one mind to another. The first modern attempt to diagram that process came in 1948, when two Bell Labs researchers sought to solve a practical problem—how to transmit information efficiently over telephone lines—and ended up shaping a foundation for how we consider human connection today.
Section I: The Shannon–Weaver Model — Communication as Transmission
When Claude Shannon and Warren Weaver introduced their model of communication in 1948, they weren’t thinking about classrooms or conversations; they were thinking about telephones. Shannon, a mathematician at Bell Labs, was studying how to send messages through electrical circuits with the least amount of interference. His goal was precision: a system in which information could be transmitted, received, and decoded without distortion.
In its simplest form, the Shannon–Weaver Model outlines five key components: a sender, a message, a channel, noise, and a receiver. Later versions added feedback to acknowledge that communication rarely ends at reception; it loops back through response. The model’s simplicity made it foundational for how we understand all forms of message exchange, from radio broadcasts to human dialogue.
Imagine you’re explaining something important to a friend. You form the thought (sender), put it into words (message), speak aloud (channel), and hope it reaches the listener (receiver). Noise—anything from background chatter to the friend’s assumptions or daydreams—can distort what you mean. Feedback, whether a nod or a question, helps you gauge whether your message landed.
Now imagine trying to apologize to someone you care about after a painful misunderstanding. You’ve rehearsed the conversation for days, turning phrases over in your mind, searching for the language that might soften what was said. When the moment finally comes, you speak from the heart, but your voice trembles. You mean to say “I’m sorry,” yet what they hear is “I’m still defending myself.” You reach out, and somehow they retreat. The words are correct, but the meaning collapses somewhere between intent and reception.
The Shannon–Weaver Model helps us see the anatomy of that collapse. The “noise” isn’t external static or interference, but the invisible internal weight of emotion, memory, and assumption. Even when a message is spoken clearly, those unseen forces can bend it out of shape. The model reminds us that successful communication isn’t about flawless delivery but about whether understanding survives the distance between two people.
The model is practical but limited: it shows how messages move, not how meaning emerges. Shannon and Weaver understood communication as a linear transfer of data; humans experience it as something far more collaborative — a process of interpretation, empathy, and response.
This distinction is important because even a perfectly transmitted message can still fail to communicate meaning. As my student asked, “How do you know if someone actually gets what you’re saying?” According to Shannon and Weaver, you’d simply confirm that the message was received and decoded. But real understanding, as anyone who has been misunderstood knows, is not that simple. It requires shared context, empathy, and attention to nuance. These are elements that don’t fit neatly into a circuit diagram.
The Shannon–Weaver Model gives us a starting point: communication as transmission. Yet it leaves us asking what happens beyond transmission, where ideas meet perception. To explore that terrain, we turn to one of the most enduring frameworks in contemporary communication: Barnlund’s Transactional Model.
Section II: Barnlund’s Transactional Model — Communication as Co-Creation
By the 1970s, communication theorist Dean Barnlund proposed a shift so profound that it still reshapes how we teach the subject today. Where Shannon and Weaver treated communication as a line of transmission, Barnlund imagined something circular, alive, and reciprocal. He argued that the exchange itself was not an assembly line of words moving from one mind to another but a living process that creates a shared narrative between people.
Barnlund’s Transactional Model reimagined this process not as a one-way transfer of information but as a dynamic act of co-creation. Every conversation, he suggested, is an event that exists only in the moment it happens, built, revised, and reshaped by both participants at once. The act of meaning-making is mutual. Each person’s interpretation alters the message itself. In this way, communication becomes less about accuracy and more about emergence.
To help students see what this looks like, I often begin with an exercise that never fails to surprise them. I pair students and ask them to tell a simple story from their weekend. The first partner speaks for thirty seconds while the other listens silently, offering no reaction or feedback. Then they switch. When we debrief, most describe the silence as unsettling, even cold. “I felt like I was boring him or maybe he wasn’t even listening,” one student said. The second round changes everything. This time, listeners can nod, smile, or ask questions. The conversation immediately warms. Laughter enters the room. Meaning deepens. What changed wasn’t the content of the stories but the shared construction of them. Each speaker began shaping their language in response to the listener’s cues. Together, they built a small, co-authored moment of understanding.
If Shannon and Weaver gave us the map of communication, Barnlund taught us how to read the terrain. His model asks us to notice the pauses, gestures, silences, and emotional undercurrents that live beneath language. Meaning, he argued, is not simply sent; it is negotiated, felt, and co-authored.
Where Shannon and Weaver saw a sender and receiver, Barnlund saw communicators engaged in simultaneous exchange. Each person is both sender and receiver at once, continually encoding, decoding, and interpreting within a shared field of experience. Communication, in this view, is about negotiating reality together.
Section III: From Transmission to Transformation — Understanding the Difference
The Shannon-Weaver model teaches how to speak clearly, while Barnlund’s model teaches why clarity is sometimes not enough. One focuses on information; the other on interpretation. One aims for precision; the other for understanding.
Learning Shannon-Weaver fosters autonomy. It helps us become aware of purpose, audience, and structure. Learning Barnlund brings humility. It reminds us that even the most carefully crafted message depends on another person’s frame of meaning. There is comfort in realizing this: sometimes we can speak with care and still not be understood. Our responsibility is to communicate as clearly and honestly as we can, and then to accept the outcome rather than trying to control it. There is strength in understanding that we do not have to be fully understood to be worthy of speaking.
A simple exercise illustrates the difference. Imagine describing an image while someone, turned away, tries to draw it based only on your words. The first attempt, with no questions allowed, is pure Shannon-Weaver transmission. The drawing will likely be efficient but distorted. Now imagine trying again with questions and clarifications. The process slows, but understanding grows. Meaning, like art, becomes clearer when it is co-created.
Think of the miscommunication between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. For most of the novel, each interprets the other through the noise of pride, prejudice, and social expectation. Darcy’s words are technically clear—his first proposal is grammatical perfection—but his tone, timing, and failure to consider Elizabeth’s perspective distort the message beyond recognition. It takes a long series of feedback loops—letters, revelations, and changed behavior—for meaning to realign with intent. Only when both listen with humility rather than defensiveness does understanding emerge. Austen’s scene endures because it dramatizes the very truth Barnlund uncovered: communication becomes transformative only when both parties risk vulnerability and mutual perception.
The shift from transmission to creation mirrors a moral one. To communicate ethically is to recognize that every exchange plants something between people: a seed that can grow into trust or misunderstanding, grace or distance. The philosopher Martin Buber, writing in 1923 in I and Thou, taught that real life unfolds through genuine encounter. “All real living is meeting,” he wrote, describing how we come fully alive when we engage another person not as an object to persuade but as a presence to meet. Every tone of voice and every moment of attention becomes soil for what will take root between us. Our words are seeds, and the spaces we tend together become the garden we live in.
That realization gives us a kind of power that is both humbling and hopeful. It means that everyday choices in conversation — things like listening fully, asking questions, or pausing before reacting — can repair trust where there was once distance. Communication becomes not just a skill but a responsibility: the way we decide, moment by moment, what kind of relationships and communities we will build.
My student’s question still lingers: How do you know if someone actually gets what you’re saying? Understanding grows each time we listen with patience and speak with care. It lives in the meeting itself, in the ongoing work of tending meaning between people. When we stay present to one another, communication becomes the living art of truly meeting another human being.
For more essays by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack, click here!
Poem: She Spoke Of Love
A moment before, floating in the sun
My love beside me
Warm and glowing
Her eyes ablaze with rays of light
Her darkness concealed in
Illumination.
A moment before, she spoke of love
My friend beside me
Kind and gentle
Her smile warmed but burned
Her face like wax
Melting.
I wanted to see my love through the brightness of stars
The universe brought low and waiting
Swirling about my hands and mind
Becoming one with all that breathes
And pants
And lives
And dies
A moment before, I removed my gloves
My fire beside me
Trembling and stiff
Her fingers felt but did not touch
Her hand in mine only
Embers.
A moment before, she swallowed words
My pain beside me
Inflamed and suffering
Her silence thickened in my throat
Her Nothing choked
Suffocating.
I wanted to see my love through the brightness of stars
The universe brought low and waiting
Wrapping my cold in warmth
Like a child crying
But hopeful
But calming
But safe
A moment before, the snow dropped down
My hope beside me
Present and vacant
Her ruffled dress covered with water
Her boots muddied with
Goodbye.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2015
Sonnet: Lantern of the Withering Grove
Through slender branches shines the swollen star,
A lantern hung upon this midnight’s crest.
Its argent glow calls shadowed fields afar
To bow in prayer, by silver calm caressed.
The fading canopy, with colors frail,
Lets gilded light slip softly through the air.
Each trembling bough becomes a fragile veil,
That parts to show a vision rich and rare.
The orb ascends with majesty untamed,
While earth beneath lies weary, bare, and still.
Though time shall claim what autumn once had named,
The moon restores the world with tender will.
So beauty dwells where silence weaves its art,
And sows eternal wonder in the heart.
Jill Szoo Wilson, 10/25
I wrote this sonnet after gazing at the October supermoon, its light threading through thinning branches and the fading canopy of fall.
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Sonnet: The Tongue of Peace
What once was whole is splitting at the seam,
With roaring tongues that never find a word.
Each stands alone, entranced by their own dream,
While fear doth arm the gates with aim absurd.
The bridge between us withers into dust,
A chasm wide where voices fade to air.
Yet in our hearts still burns this ancient trust—
The longing for a hand extending ear.
But how to reach when dread hath drawn the line?
When walls are built of pride and weary doubt?
We stand as statues, yearning for a sign,
Yet know not how to call the silence out.
O break the curse—let all division cease,
For love still speaks the only tongue of peace.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Poem: Moonlight We
The sun grows hours
Then burns them dry
Like
Tumbleweeds
Blow by the days
And we
The cattle drivers
Saddle the minutes
And ride them,
Guide them from atop
Their prickly backs.
The Sunlight We
Strap on our shoes
Tattered at the soles
To tread
A line
Publicly defined by
The rules of
Marketplace
And who the other
We’s expect us all
To be.
Astride atop
Rolling ticks and tocks
And traveling
Through noon time
Crowds of We
Is She—
An explorer whose eyes
Are lifted
Toward the sky
Inside a sea of eyes
Seeing same.
The busy pavement
Vibrates with progress
As defined
By hand held devices
That shine
In daytime rays
And ricochet
Blinding
The gaze
Of the masked We
Stumbling at a gallop’s pace.
But she—
She sees.
She sees what is real
In the moment defined
Not confined by
What she should
Why she ought or
Questioning
Why she would
She rides the time
And feels the warmth
Of the sun instead of
Using it for light.
Reflection of the sun can be seen everywhere.
Embracing now
A give and take
Of new and ideas
And what does it mean
She offers herself
To the questions
That rise
Dwells in the
Wonder
Of wandering
Free.
And he—
He sees.
Along the trail
Sprawling on every side
Is one—
A He—
Who rides his own
Tumbleweed time
Carrying boredom
Wrapped in
Discontent
Searching for what
Is relevant.
His eyes wide open
Heart behind a shield
He journeys
With a purpose
Gone cold
Like a campfire
Dwindling—
He rubs his hands together
Above reasons
That fail
To keep him warm.
Until the moment
Just one moment
He
Amidst a thousand eyes
Sees
She
The only she
In a sea of
We
Whose awareness
Pierces the shield of his own.
No words exchanged—
Not yet—
But the moment is frozen still
The sun holds its place
And reveals
Details of her face
As though
The opulent
Fiery star above
Is painting
Something new.
“Hello,”
Says she and
“Hello,”
Says he and the sea of
We begins to roar
Once again.
He asks,
“Can you travel
This way?
If only
Today?”
He smiles—
Not only his lips
But eyes brightly
Joining as
His hands begin to warm.
She accepts
His invitation,
“I will come
Your way
Let’s not delay
The sun will set into night.”
Two journeys become
One moonlight We
As the day stumbles
Behind the moon—
The moon that stops
The growth of time
Replacing stars
For minutes
And silence for sound
When all around
Disappears
Into a single
You.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Poem: The Reaching
If ever a UFO landed on your head—
“She thinks that's a weird question.
No UFO has!”
I wasn’t talking to you.
But to you . . .
Pretend one has.
What do you think it would feel like?
Imagine it.
Go on.
I will wait.
[A sparrow flies by]
I am not asking how heavy it is or
Cold or
Bumpy or
Smooth:
You could not really know such things
At all.
I am asking what you would feel like inside—
“She would feel like an idiot!”
But if it was really there . . . on your head—
“On her head? What is this ridiculous riddle?”
Okay not on your head, but over . . .
If you ran out of your home
With no where to go
Your hair was torn and
Bruises and
The smell of whiskey
And cigars
On your face—
If your shoes were untied
And you saw your mother cry
And you didn’t want to stay
One more second
In that place.
If the air was so cold
You could see your breath
Shooting into the night
Like a jet engine beginning a race
So you slowed your pace
And panted and heaved
And your knees buckle under you
With disgrace.
Let us pretend the aloneness
You feel—
“It’s just a feeling, she's not alone!”
But still . . .
Your aloneness is real
With no one to call
And if you turned back now
You would be thrown against a wall.
So despite your
Aloneness
You crawl
To safety and the blackest woods
You embrace.
If in that space
You held on tight to a
Branch you could reach
Or the neck of a deer
Or the paw of a bear
Until
At last
You saw glowing near
A rounded
Machine with light bulbs you could see
And a sound you could hear
Like a robot giving chase.
What would you think—
“She would think she was nuts!”
Okay, maybe. But . . .
Would you believe your eyes
Or think your sanity was disguised
In the brain of a woman
Otherwise apt?
If you could touch and
Feel
Would you believe it was real?
And what about smell?
If you could smell the exhaust
Coming from the pipe
And taste the metal on the
Wind of the night
And hear a voice shrieking,
“We come from someplace” . . .
If it landed and
A hand
Came out from within
Would you look at your fingers
And kiss them goodbye
In case after touching they never returned
But still reach them out
And touch the warmth
Of an unknown hand
Unrecognizable
And trust
Even before you could see his face?
You can answer now—
“She doesn't want to answer,
She thinks you’ve gone mad!”
But there is no madness in the question. It is only a question . . .
“Yes,” she said.
And continued on,
“If I knew I was alone
Even in a crowd
And the sky delivered a mystery
I would.
Reach out.
And be brought in.”
Thank you for your honesty—
“Thanks for nothing, you mean!”
But thank you for telling the truth.
With a pair of eyes
Belonging only to her
She looked at the man
With the question,
“I would.”
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Jill Szoo Wilson 