wandering from oasis to oasis
in the high desert-
the days seems endless
with only the ravens for company.
Once I thought there was someone,
someone the old men talked about,
someone who could bring bloom to the dry places
and honey from the stone.
I thought that there might be a way,
a light, a star to follow
that would lead to the right place
where that someone would be.
And I thought I would know when it happened
and that person would know me
and would call me by my real name.
And the ravens would become doves
and rise into the light
like angels in the desert sky.
We were walking with friends
behind their Minnesota farmhouse,
fields of cornstubble stretching to the winter gray horizon.
Suddenly from under our feet-
a heart stopping flash –
all feathers and noise and wings,
a vision of gold calling in alarm.
With our pulses pounding,
we watched the pheasant disappear.
We laughed at our fear
and marveled at the beauty and wonder
of what we had seen.
This must be what the shepherds felt
in a field a long time ago,
when they flushed
a covey of angels.
***This is a poem written many years ago but still one of my favorites. May you be surprised by joy and wonder during this Christmas season – K
her small body
brown robed and speckled
covering a deep heart
beating beating beating
in time to the sound of wings
and the lift of Newtons third law
in full throated song
and rushing wind
I found that thing which had been lost.
Though to be honest,
I hadn’t realized it was lost.
I had not thought of it in the least
I have no idea how long.
But there it was-
in all its glory.
The thing that had been lost
In my hand.
It was now remembered.
A memory attached.
To always be that thing
that had been lost,
its the insistence of grace
the cajoling and prodding
that makes it such a nuisance
it will not let me be
again and again and again
(The amygdala and hippocampus
receive the information
from the olfactory bulb
before routing it to the thalamus,
already conjuring memories
before awareness of the scent
is formed in the conscious mind.)
Four eggs perch in my grandmother’s bowl
among the fragrant tangerines,
ready to take a crack into the citrus-y batter
where the luscious dates await.
The air is scented with oranges
and roasting pecans,
the fragrance from a kitchen
that no longer exists.
I have lived away from cities for so long now
That my solitary nature extends to the practice of silence.
During the day,
I don’t reach to the remote for the distraction
Of TV noise or tune into music, classical or otherwise,
Only listening for the songs of wind or wing
In the morning sky
And the raucous call of crows.
Sunlight breaks across the window panes
Directing the small dog to its warmth.
I long for the days of comfort as I sit at the old table,
Dented and worn from gatherings of dearly beloveds
And simple meals that have fed my soul.
I reach for my sweater and the leash
And we walk out to the backroad down to the lake
Where the angels and I will silently commune
As the small ducks accept the gift of stale bread.