Servant Door

Starting from nowhere
I find myself believing in things
bigger than myself—
that fragile city
somewhere near home.

The dark is no longer
the servant door
at which I must enter,
invisibly,
but instead
becomes the gateway
of all knowing.

I have only to close my eyes for a moment
and the universe that gathers
in the grooves of your fingers
near the surface of my skin
erupts with the voltage of summer
storm on the edge
of still water.

Why then, live in doubt
of whom we must serve?

Believe in the sky
and the way love sits
at the base of the spine
waiting to be recognized
in laughter
or at the deep
echoing well
of eyes awake
and unafraid
to finally hold
your gaze.

At this open door
of acceptance
we will enter paradise—
entwined and smiling
at the promise
of thousands of tomorrows.

The Constitution of Winter

The constitution of winter
jingles in the trees
at the calm dawn.

Birds whose flight
keeps them constant in the cold,
twitter and chirp
with red squirrels
like shining crystals of light
and sound captured
in the moment
between sorting small logs
from heavy oak
into the sling I carry
to my hearth and the heat
that warms my belly and breath
where I sit
contemplating
the body
and the boundaries
of the mind.

In the quiet of my breath
I can see myself
sitting plain skinned
with no adornments.
I am stripped to the shell
of this dwelling
and only the fullness
of the spectrum
can enter safely
in peace.

So stark
this familiar
brilliance,
I blink
until my eyes water
tears of vibrant joy

and words trace the outline
of a smile,
the darkness
of an excited pupil,
the fine hairs
brushed with desire
at the curve of the neck,

and the memory
of the sound
of your voice
undoes me

as I follow the flight
of a smoky Junco
into the pines

where the meaning
of truth
in January’s expanding
white wave
is often found.