Crumbling of Bridges

The milky edges
of the fog
trace heavenly fingers
along the lusty curves
of the river.

These sermons are damp and wet,
wanting the cool of August nights
to burn off and fly away before 
chill of  morning,naked and looking
for morning

like the cutting
of the raven's wing before flight
and the crumbling of bridges

--the last swim
before the water
and winter frees.

Simple Gift

Imagine
that life is simple.

The shade of a tree
gives us the footprint
of comfort and light.

We weave our lives together
in so much joy it is hard
to know what it might be
to go on without the others.

Pluck that peach off the tree
and sample the sweetness
so that you might know
it is good and right
to enjoy the taste.

Pleasure
floods the mouth,
and all the senses,
for a moment

and then
is gone.

Like the harvest,

winter not far away,

rejoice

and know
what it is to examine
this

simple

gift

of

time.

Thread This Life

When I consider
the eye of the needle
that I must thread
this life  through,

I understand
that I am most wise
to let the universe come to me,
language rolling
like prayer off the tongue

and leading my words
like music
to God's open heart;
unafraid of loving
too much.

Gather My Sins

Let me gather my sins
in a satin basket;

let the heaviness
of that delicate collection

hold me to the earth
like ballast.

I will eventually give them all away,
one heartache, hurt, and worry at a time,

until I burn
like karma
on the horizon
of heaven;

golden in my leaving
and hot from the fires
of that flame.

Moon Swoon

Press your lips
sweetly against the pastel
of that crescent of a moon.

I swoon
just thinking
about a swim
in those waters.

Surrender Everything

Surrender everything.

The way you make your bed
or your coffee with brown sugar and cream--
the crusty bread of the day
slathered, thick and sweet,
with apricot jam
for breakfast.

Forget the decaying of clocks
that try to keep you on time;
the journal
and the words
that seem
surprisingly sane.

Surrender suffering
and the floundering
of work; the polite banter
of tasks that have long ago
lost their meaning.

Give up grasp of the earth between toes
and, better yet, under your nails,
as you dig up witch weeds that grow
faster than flowers, fava beans,
or garlic, chives; even purple and green
 bruises of mint leaves.

Pry yourself loose from the fat fingers
of children who touched your face
and looked you daringly in the eyes;
who kissed you on the mouth
with real passion,
and love kindness--
not to be matched
in the careless exchanges
of adult currency.

But most of all,
tear it down,
that ramshackle dwelling
where memory drags you
into the grave
crying, misunderstanding,
arguing again and again
with a longing
that you never really owned.

It was, after all, just a roof
over your head
lacking a real foundation
and nothing but cold stone
to build a life around.

Fair Weather

If there is something I have learned
it is that lightning strikes
in the same bitter place
twice.

The smoke of that fire
welcomes me again,
making me feel sure of myself;
like nothing ever happened.

The sun shining
on a cloudless day
could never turn dark
or the grey green
of twisters;
nothing like that
ever happened.

But I fall
on my knees
and pray
to remember
myself
even when the forecast
predicts fair weather.

I remember
that blue skies
are exactly what  I must
watch the horizon for
and prepare for any signs
of storms  I will make for myself.

The sweetness of rain
is a smell I know--
electric and charged
with the source
of God's laughter.