wildness came calling
and shook me from sleep
voices singing moonsongs
dancing footfalls
running creekside with rushing water
their cries of Spring
pulled me from deep slumber
and for a moment
I rose to sing a wilding chorus
and rejoice at the sound
here is what I heard
about the beginning and the end
there were words spoken
there was music
and the spheres danced with angels
on the head of a pin
there may have been small animals
and rib bones and fig leaves
but the upshot is that
they left
and the garden will never be the same
folding hands into origami of thankfulness and praise
tattered cloth lifts in spring breezes masked
by the long solitary path of twelve calendar pages crowded
by every woman and man, pursuing
a future once certain, then not, now, hopeful
greening again in the eyes of every child
they’re not the cottonwoods
or live oaks from my childhood
climbing trees and leafy hideaways
where library books
and pb&js were squirreled away
on long summer days
no they are trees unfamiliar to me
standing watch over my doorway
in the last home of my life
where I will spend long summer days
with books and pb&js
squirreled away in their shade
some days open like honeycomb
dripping with the sweetness of mercy
and filled with the grace of a thousand summer skies
remember you are filled with light
and the heart of your heart
is strong
Even though I no longer like the cold weather, for some reason my body is missing the frigid walks along the waters edge. The north wind slicing through layers and layers of sweaters and scarves and jackets like a very cold butter knife. And I seem to be expecting the fog to settle in and gray skies to be all I see except here, its sunny and not cold but dont get me wrong its not warm.
Its the blue skies so far that have me stunned in a good way because that fog would get in my mind and cover my eyes and my mouth until I was suffocated in its grieving heartless grayness.
I can live with not cold but not warm and the blue sky can visit my morning window all it wants cause this might be the last place I live and I will gladly die here in the blue skyness of it all.
the old pear tree reluctant to give way to solstice light stays green, each branch a banner to its spring heart until one day, one leaf, blood red as summers sunset is cast off to fend for itself in the cold winters wind and the tree relinquishes its hold to acquiesce to autumns desire
Its not withstanding the urgency
of breath and feeling,
molding into those things which
we say and do within our masks,
hiding in each moment.
But there are times,
when letting guards down,
we recognize our real faces
and wings unfurl
in the cold light of a November morning.
Wedge of deep silver
shadowed against the breast
of stone and water
opening isthmus arms
crux of land and sky
embracing water, earth deep,
bronze and gold, russet, indigo.
And leaving the warmth of bed and nights embrace,
I stretch toward the dark dawn,
aware of all mortality and grace
and the singular thought of ones life.
This too shall pass and like the meadow grasses
separating grain from chaff,
my soul will someday join the autumn wind
and sing shining into the cold morning.
