13 – a chapbook of poetry.

I wasn’t expecting a message from the past.
Not one wrapped in a plain cardboard mailer with my name on the return label.
Not one that would arrive on June 13 — the very number I once named a book after.

But that’s exactly what happened.

Three years ago, I published a small chapbook called 13 – a chapbook of poetry. It’s a slim collection, full of quiet, soul-deep poems. I released it softly into the world, without expectation. The title 13 came to me intuitively — I didn’t question it much. It just felt right.

Last week, something stirred in me — a gentle pull — and I decided to order a copy of my own book. A small homecoming, maybe. A return to a voice I had lived in once and longed to hear again.

The package arrived today.
June 13.
Of course it did.

Why 13?

In biblical and spiritual traditions, numbers aren’t just mathematical — they’re symbolic.
Twelve represents order, completeness: 12 tribes of Israel, 12 disciples, 12 months.
Thirteen is what happens next. It pushes past perfection, into the unknown.

Some traditions associate 13 with rebellion or disorder — like the thirteenth guest at the Last Supper, or the year of revolt in Genesis. But others, especially mystics, view it as a threshold: a number of deep transformation, of crossing realms.

There are 13 lunar cycles in a year. In Jewish mysticism, there are 13 attributes of divine mercy. In dreams and in poetry, 13 often points toward what’s hidden, sacred, and just beyond the veil.

When I titled my chapbook 13, I think I was naming the space between — between the known and the felt, the said and the unsayable.



Poem 13: Gold.

After the book arrived, I flipped to the thirteenth poem, almost without thinking.
It’s titled Gold. It reads:

Our silence is gold.
Lying in this darkness,
I drink your caress
of my soul and spirit
across the realms.
I hear you whisper my name,
and I call yours the same.
Over and over, softly, sweetly,
again and again,
our silence is gold.
We drink it
so that this love never grows old.



I paused.
The poem felt like it had grown fuller in my absence. Like it had been waiting for me.

In scripture, gold symbolizes divinity. Incorruptible truth. Sacred value.
This poem is about love, yes — but a love unspoken, eternal, flowing across dimensions. It reads like a dialogue with the Divine. Or a lost beloved. Or the deepest part of the self that speaks only in silence.

The final line — “so that this love never grows old” — hit me differently now. It’s not just a poem anymore. It’s a prayer.




Echoes from the Invisible.

For this chapbook — 13 — to return to me on the 13th of June, three years after I birthed it, feels like a secret handshake from the universe. Or perhaps a benediction.

It makes me think that what we write, what we create, never really leaves us. Sometimes it circles back, carrying messages we couldn’t have understood at the time.

Time isn’t always linear. Sometimes it loops.
Sometimes it speaks — and if you’re quiet enough, you can hear it whisper.



For the Forgotten Poet in You.

If you’ve ever created something and then let it fade into the background of your life — this is for you.

If you’ve ever wondered if your voice still matters, if your work still breathes — this is your sign.

Your words don’t forget you.
Your poems remember.
They wait for the moment you’re ready to hear them differently — not as the person who wrote them, but as the person who now needs them.


An Invitation.

If this moment speaks to you, follow it. Return to something you once made. Re-read a journal. Reopen an old file. Open a poem like a door.

And if you're curious about my little book, it’s still out there.
It’s called 13 – a chapbook of poetry.
Not just a collection — but a mirror. A mystery. A soft return.

On June 13, it came back to me.
Maybe something’s about to come back to you too.