Triggers

Basil
sage
lemon balm
mint
chives
thyme--
all so fresh
after the wetness
of rain
on this trusted morning.

Go back.

Walk slowly and with a smile
to the smell of fennel
at the counter
in the warmth
of a sunny kitchen
where quiet
bruises
soft flesh
as you strip the veins
from the tenderness of that fruit.

The pungent freshness
triggers you to cry out
like you had just opened
the many layers
of an onion

or crushed
the sulpher
of a single
clove
of
garlic.

Where Memory Disappears

This liquid day shimmers
with the cold rain of late September
and we shiver knowing the rattle of Winter
just around the corner.

Her footsteps approach the door
keys jangling
and giving us warning
that she will enter the house
all too soon.

Pull the covers over your head,
children.  Don't let her take your warm
and the joy of your play in the sun.

She will find you soon enough
and take you back to that dark
forgetful dreaming
where memory disappears.

The Queen of All Your Tomorrows

Only fools rush
toward a finish

flushed and glancing behind them
to see what cruel beast nips
at the hem of the heavy memory
of her gowns.

Let your soul fly,
like your mother
or your father,
toward heaven
and that faith that carried them
to the end of their joy.

Imagine you have wings, or
better yet, are carried out of the city
by angels,
far from the bottles
and the labels
and the bodies tangled
and lashing out at God,

and release the earth
from your white-knuckled hold
and fall into the air
like you own it;

like you are the queen
of all your tomorrows.

Mary and Her Long Hair

Falling into the darkness
of the year
feel your feet ache

for oil and the warmth
of soul that might take them,
even before the cold,
into healing hands
and bring rest;
blessings.

Mary and her long hair
walk into the room,
follow you to your chair,
ask you to sit
quiet

while she takes you into her arms
with her smile
with only her attention
and words
to hold you.

When Winter Comes

This verse,
these words full of wonder
and discovery,
leave me content
as a lover adored
with the fever of a body
that voyaged through distances
and the depths of space and time,
to find another shore.

I am newly born here;
a pilgrim with a pen,
waiting to weave these words
into a simple poem-

the strongest pretty patterns offered
lovingly from the soft place
of a safe soul.

When winter comes
I will be ready.

The coals of my heart gasp
waiting for the breath
that awakens,
fully present
and wise
in the glow
of that fire.

The Edge of Everything

The dreaming I do most days now
includes a hammock
and a small cabin
where I draw my knees
to my chest,
embrace the meditation
of each moment,
and sigh
deep in a life
that guesses easily
at what stone to skip
across the imagination
toward a shore
of satisfied new vision.

It is a solid place
of earth warmed and wealthy,
where common ground
blossoms with gardens
full of flowers 
and joy is a fist
rich with abundant blossoms;
the sky discovering
the horizon
at unexpected hours
without fear
of falling
off the edge
of everything.

Alone

Alone.
I am bereft.

Haunted by shadows
of expectations
who abandon me
with their silences.

The whiskers and softness
of the future
slinks, quiet as a whisper,
near my ankles
purring and reminding me
that the longer I live

the more I must find comfort
in my own company;
love what I know
is living in trembling
just under my skin.