Lessons learned may not go far-
in case of emergency,
guard your heart-
its ruptured tires might go flat.
In case of emergency,
do this or that,
its not pretty and it can be rough,
it just what you do
if the going gets tough.
In case of emergency,
by and by,
we will not know when
and we may not know why.
In case of emergency.
hold your heart safe –
in case of emergency,
just in case.
Bits of twine
and strands of dried grasses,
some smelling of autumn hay fields
and summer’s sweet grass meadows,
woven into a perfect nest
to fill the empty space
between my ribs,
left by my wandering
heart.
Flat footed, I stood
as my heart leapt from my chest,
flying to another spring
in another time,
leaving me
flat footed
and open to the birds
building their spring nests,
perfectly woven,
smelling of sweet grass
and hay fields.
Willow boned and hollow breasted,
I wander into the winter light
drifting on careful wings
lifted by uncertain urges
to sky and cloud.
How often will these days drift
into loneliness,
bearing little artifice of reality
and none of the grace requested.
How still the breath when flying.
How still the heart when praying.
Is this the apocryphal tale
of water into wine
or the great flood
in which our souls will wash away
down the mighty stream
of some great river
washed to the shore with copper pennies
to pay the ferryman’s toll.
How still the breath when praying.
How still the heart when dying.
She waits, willow boned and heart still beating,
wandering into morning light
from the deep nights dreams.
The sound of wings urge her flight
to clouds and heavens door,
bearing little of her waking reality
and all of the grace requested.
How still the breath…
How still the heart…
bits and bobs
things found and kept
my life
on the windowsill
above the kitchen sink
Will the notification of sun
be the early morning birdsong
or the sound of your breathing
as you lie warm in your dreams?
Speak now of spring
and let all that went before
be lost in myth and shadow.
Winters ice has no hold on us, my love,
speak now of spring
and I will be yours.
Each word tattooed across your face,
writ in years and wind.
Grace and wildness are in your touch
and your hands speak of your travels.
Leave no more, my dear one,
and stay with me til spring returns.
Rest your head and love me
for I am yours again.
Speak now of spring.
Such vanity,
the wind remarks
to the old oak and young willow,
in a season when all is loss
and fields are fallow.
Leaves have flown
on the wings of migratory birds
and furred creatures have burrowed
deep into the cold earth,
gravely sleeping under cover of frost
and snow.
The year dies,
resting on its hind legs
upright until the end.
The quiet resignation
of the turning earth,
its rotation of season
to season.
Everything is vanity,
reminds the wind.
All life stills in the end,
cold as stone in the deepest winter,
certain as old oaks stand sturdy
and young willows weep and bend.
Tiny stitched
lines of geography sewn
into flesh and muscle,
needled from silken to coarseness,
fragile to enduring.
Fabrics woven into years
of patchworked life,
tattered and torn ,
to be mended
and forgiven.
Weary threads continue to unravel
and fray
to be caught up again
by sharp silver needles,
darning the gaps
strengthening the ties,
binding the thoughtless wounds,
the intimate grief.
Steady hands fold the hems,
straight and narrow,
to be cut through
and reworked into patterns
of spring to summer
to autumn.
Each moment embroidered
to its best possible telling
as the pattern emerges
from faded cloth.
Seeing the mythologies explained
in pieced remnant and scrap,
we fold its story around us,
holding tight against the cold.
The week ends.
Sun falling beyond the western ridge.
Gilding the few clouds in gold,
tinged in dusty mauve and lavender.
I weep.
Trying to release it all
in a few stolen moments on the porch
while the shrimp bubble in the creole sauce
and the bread warms.
Exposed on the south and west by old rattlely windows,
the porch gives the twilight permission
to sit for a few moments in the old rocking chair
as the first bats sweep across the darkling sky.
I walk in and stir the rice.
I wash my face
and modulate my voice, removing the weariness and panic.
No sense in letting on.
I am tied to this life.
Chosen or saddled,
it is my path.
The gate to my freedom only opened by her death.
Fairness has nothing to do with it.
She lies in her bed,
well made of the soft earth,
caring nothing
of wars
or hunger
or sadness.
She lies comfortable,
spending
hours
days
weeks
considering the properties of rain
and how needy the roots of the young sapling.
She no longer hungers
but she is nourished
as she counts
months
years
centuries
and, oh, how lovely the sun looks
each time it rises over the ridge,
raising the tiny living grasses
to wave over her .
She smiles
easy in her bed.
***EMILY: “Does anyone ever realize life while they live it…every, every minute?”
STAGE MANAGER: “No. Saints and poets maybe…they do some.”― Thornton Wilder, Our Town
Its not the thought but its passing
that leans hard into the wind-
out standing words left
in the dust of regret and failure,
too soon forgotten
and no longer regarded.
Nouns and verbs
hanging on the line,
flapping in the cold breeze of memory.
The tales told will not be remembered
and the lies or untruths
are not long for this world.
Speak now or forever
hold your peace.
What peace is this that you should call it so?
What water under the bridge
flows directly to the point
of no return?
When will the words that must be said
be said – so that the ears and hearts will hear?
Such truths may be self evident
but not realized
until the final trumpet sounds.
The Course of Our Seasons 