Nothing to Return

Should I ask you why
I have left my body,
small and fading,
to follow the path
beyond the yearning
for an audience
with something greater
than myself?

The laws evoke
time and space and the ways
in which we must draw lines
around the boundaries
of our skin and bones,
but I have forgotten myself
and ripped the fabric
of all that I am
becoming.

I cast open
the hush of my own tomb
and wait to be delivered
the last blows
that will release me.

I have had enough for now.
I have accounted for all of the ways
in which I have been safe
and lost my way.

This time I will walk
with purpose
and sleep peacefully
with nothing collected
and nothing to return.

Shiver of Joy

When joy presents itself
in a shiver
it is time to sigh
and pay attention
to moment after moment
lined up in a row

like days of the week
or the slow consumption of a meal;
course after delicious course,
satisfied completely
until finally you stop waiting
for something to go wrong.

The pendent breath
is the breath wasted;
giving away our riches
to the nothingness of the past
or uncertainty of the future.

Instead, let joy
be the house of prayer
where we worship
the moment
where we touch
God's face
while we look
into the eyes
of our beloved
friend
and smile
at that holy union.

Seven

Lucky you.

You only turn seven once.

One, two.
Buckle your shoe.
Three, four.

God, I loved four.

And now you are seven so fast.

I once heard that the body
completely replaces itself every seven
years.   If that is so,
tomorrow you will no longer
have any of those first cells we shared.
The surprise of you
still here,
in every smile.

The surprise of you,
still here
in every question
about gestation,
and germination,
and gratitude.


When you are seven,
how old am I?

In this lifetime
or the next,
I am more
than seven
and less than
infinity
inside all
your love.

The Shades of Red

Toxic red
I am unmoved
by the way that vermilion
pollutes my mind--
makes me crazy
with rage
and passion
like a bull
in the ring.

You touch my thigh
like a plush and blushing
cushion in an unknown
room in an unknown city
in Italy or France
or maybe Montreal.
Europe and anonymous
affection is that close.

Please read poetry to me.
Love, look me in the eyes
and know that the language
you speak in a few words
is the Blood Moon rising,
is the color of the skin
of my sisters
in far off South Dakota,

is the antidote
for so much
sullen suffering.

This red
is unsustainable
and bold
and tastes
like the earth and prayers
sifted by the wind.

The Language of Praise and Thanks Giving

Say "Please." and "Thank you."
What do you say?
Please.

Yes, please.

And thank you, so very much.

For all you do,
I am so deeply grateful.

Honored to know you.

The light
in me sees
and bows 
to the light
in you.

Namaste.

Merci.
Grazie.
Gracias.

De nada.
De rien.

S'il vous plait.
Per piacere.
Por favor.

May the words of thanks
cascade from my heart 
into the vista of the world
where you have woven
your kindnesses.

I want to learn to weave
in the undulating seas
of these vernal nights and days
and cradle others 
with such softness.

I want to learn to speak praises
and give thanks in the native language
that speaks heart to heart,
soul to soul,
 until all the poets
and priests 
can agree
that love is
the only language 
we will ever need
to know.

Random Acts of Rain

The forget-me-nots
left me breathless tonight

after the sky began to fade
into evening
and my eyes relaxed
into limpid understanding
of this beauty of another
exotic spring where blue
is not taken for granted
and the swiftly approaching
summer and her flaxen days
fall short of expectations.

Soon I will plant sunflowers
and tomatoes and the round globes of peas
into my rich soil.  Fat worms slither
and move mountains with their small bodies
just outside my door yard.

But tonight,
I am in love with the delicate edges
of daffodils and pink promises
of bleeding hearts
and the way they entwine
in the softness of the air
that chills my sweaty skin
breathing deeply after mowing.

Imagine it all,
just before sunset
and another
random act
of rain. 

Driving Directions

I get behind the wheel
without thinking
of anything but getting there.

Getting to the places
that the road takes me
and where I do
what must be done.

Groceries, soccer games,
school drop off,
pick up,
laundry,
library,
the endless days
of work,
and film
at the drug store.

My gaze
is at the pavement
and the lines that direct traffic
but my heart is tracking all the ways
I travel toward the blessings
of loving kindness
found everywhere
and in every turn
of my day.

Prayers in my first cup of coffee,
in the baptism of the morning shower,
in the stretching of my body in Sun Salute,
in the seaglass reflecting color
at eye level and in view from my rocking chair,
and all the ways language speaks the alphabet
of joy in each moment; each day.

Tonight I am road weary
and my blurred vision
crosses the center line
of consciousness. 
Give me driving directions,
and let all the angels
whisper them to me,
so that I might find my way
home again.

There are so many beautiful roads
to take  and I must journey
toward the long way
there and back again.