Love Stays

It might seem simple.

The universe vibrates in your face
until you are silent and your voice
disappears.

The joy on your face
eclipsed
so many times
by something or someone
that resembled a vanishing
of the expectation
of permanence.

But it is not simple.

It is not easy to to forget
your identity
in the presence
of God.

Time leaves me
one breath after another
and again I marvel
at the ways in which
love stays and kindness
is never far away.

Lonely for Heaven

The lushness of the green
of this season is almost more
than one hungry woman can take.

The joy of all this color nearly overtakes me
and I see pearly auras around trees,
in the red flowers of geraniums,
and at the edges of watery
sanctuaries where swimming
will baptize us--
relieve us of heat that gathers
and makes it impossible to think
beyond the surface of our skin--
it is that close to July.

I am driven mad
by the ways
in which I stroke
paper with the steel tip
of a pen
trying to capture
the way words fly
through my head
like chickadees to a feeder
in the white of winter
when the ground
is completely covered
in snow.

But this green,
this glowing filter of clorophyl
mixed with pure light,
argues reason against intuition,
and gives proof to the mind
that doubts
that God is
so much more
than an idea of bodies
lonely for heaven.

Forgetting the Point

There is no point reaching back
into the shadows
where rust pierces
the skin on the tender
pad of the foot
and renders your
flourish of activity
toward healing
gone.

The shadows of that place
where everyone screams
is there in your sleeping
and disturbs even the silence
of dreaming.

Yet another language doesn't matter.
Another reason for living
in this moment
is only an excuse
for not believing
you are good enough
to be healed
and the reason
to simply touch the face
or rest hands palm to palm
with that much
sweetness--
speak from that place
where everything is
forgotten.

Enough

Let me tell you a sliver of the truth
and you might begin to understand
why melon tastes as clear
as a sultry moon
and mahogany is a color
of old books and the ways
we all die,

suffering under the weight
of too much of empty space
in our hearts

that will never
make any sense.

I solemnly swear

to be bold tonight
as the heat is forced
from my bones
and I ache
for something more
than privacy
or the sound
of a voice
laughing
in the distance.


Teach me to trust myself
again and again
and I will understand
that I am home.
That is, after all,
that home is not so much a noun
that describes the place I live
and breathe.
Home is, rather,
the prayer
that I send out to God
and the universe responds
joyfully 

with a sigh.


Remove that doubt
that whispers under her breath

and I will dance with the beat
of all drumming
and never forget
that this moment
and this loving kindness

is enough.

Truce

I give up.

The night is rushing toward me
with no regard to the activity
in my heart and mind.
The darkness might plunder the day
of all the gifts of the sun again,
but I am not disappointed.

My hands are up
in prayer over my head
and rest over my heart
until I surrender everything
to rust and disappear
into the air

evaporate into the mist
of these hills.

Instead of negotiating a truce
I will fly away
before I am captured
by my fear and losses.

Before I admit
that there is nothing
to hand over
in the end
but my will
to control
what is not there.

The Names of God

I wander into the temple again
looking for love 
in the face of my neighbor.

I am the lover
looking for my beloved
and can only see
a glimpse of that brilliant face
through the crowds of people
who need so much from me.

I am nearly lost on my way
to the altar of this longing
and am discouraged that I will never
be invited to join in the dancing
at the celebration of simple,
abundant joy.

I call out  all the names of God
in the cacophony
of so much suffering and fear
and can only hear singing.

It is my Lord
and my hand is no longer empty.

My heart is full
of the sound
of the voices of angels
and blessed ones
who touch me
when I need to remember
I am not alone.

I chant
my prayers
holding beads
strung together
like notes on the pages
of a Sunday hymnal.

Laden

This night is laden
with the heavy burden
of joy. 

A trace of a smile
lines your lips
with the vital vibration
of the universal sounds
of laughter,
anointing the small space
where you dare to live
out loud--

Confess your disbelief
and your constant
wrestling
with the understanding
that it is right
to be happy.

It is more than the mind
can take
and the least we can do
to give thanks
for this gift
of finding
meaning
in a single
moment
of
awakening.