Room

1.

In the quiet of my breath
it is possible to return
to the tiny room I created
while my father’s voice
coaxed imagination
to decorate freedom
from the farm in Minnesota
when I was only twelve.

He, with his sailor’s adventure,
opened the riggings
and was the person
who first taught me
to fly across the surface
of the mind toward beauty.

My room was cozy,
tucked into the rafters
of a Swiss chalet
with one window looking east
at mountains and a small lake.

The narrow bed was enough
with a thick quilt and fluffy pillows
to gather around like the gentle clouds
of sleep.

A simple desk
sat under the window
for writing
and the wardrobe
held the simple clothes
made by hand.

In this place of the mind
the sun was always
morning and shining
with the promise of alone.

Happy there.
I am still happy
to meditate my body
into silence
and my thoughts
only whisper,
just out of earshot,
content to not be heard.

2.

I have moved
39 times in 45 years
and can pack a house
in two days with the proper cardboard
and excess newspaper
all reading houses must hold.

From the Philippines to Aberdeen,
from Fargo to Florida,
and then to Minnesota’s Onamia, Milaca,
Willmar, Morris, and St. Paul
before New Hampshire.

I first remember the built-ins
at the top of the stairs
and the pink rooms
with Alice in Wonderland curtains
made by my mother

and the summer we were homeless
and chased by dark rain clouds
and too many tornados to count
on their fingers stuck out of clouds
like God pointing out our rebellious sin.

And now, in the place that has held me longest,
for over ten years, it is not my home,
but someone else’s,
where I have camped,
if only for a little while longer,
under the mirrored glass of stars
and the constant swirl of dancing umbrellas.

3.

I’m coming home
to my body again
after the earthquakes
have flattened my disbelief.
After abandoning the shell
of the sunny farmhouse
that lives in the cave
of my chest.

In the invited dream
my guides have taught me
to open the beautifully
painted doors
into room after empty room
of light.

These spaces are sparse and glow
and have had no need to collect clutter
or the ugly leftovers of history.

These rooms inside me
welcome a soul to sit down,
look around and marvel
at the gestures
of laughter
in a vase of flowers
and the freedom
of lifting a window
off the frame to offer
the movement of air.

Dwelling in the Cave

The cave is among us
and has drawn us in
and roars with the empty
longing of the spaces
between the stars
and the darkest shadows
of every hollow moon.

Reach out your hand
and I might take it
as we walk on the shifting sands
of the beaches nearest the life force
we must drink deeply,
let it soak into our painful bones
and live
eyes set on the presence
of the fragile line
of the horizon.

Back in the darkness
we leave our weapons
empty
and melt into the goodness
of stone
so that we might emerge
into the light,
after each death we suffer,
and break open
like the buds of so many
spring flowers.

Dare to love me
as I am learning to love,
freely without the contract
of time.
The body finds her way
on the path worn
by the purest essence;
the scent of soul,
darkly musky
and damp
from the weeping walls
of the cave
we come home to,

the exhalation
of a lifetime of holding,

the pose of peace
and the harvesting
of the sweetest suffering
of the longing to fly.

Sing

The electric green of new dawn
eclipses my senses;
eyes blinking,
practicing sighs
into the theory
of another day.


Truth be told
I have often observed
this color in the portraits
of all the other women
I have ever been,

and the anniversary
of spring,
the rising up from the land
into the gospel
of the voice
of a single wood thrush,

a winged angel
interpreting
the foreign words
of music,
whispering joy
into the ear of God,

is enough to ignite
the whole universe
I have become
and burn with infinity
traced on the skin
of my inner thigh

and flash at the tips
of the lashes
that will welcome twilight
at the end of the world
with the notes
of an unknown song
flowing freely
from the space
of my open mouth.