Unseen

Preview this composition of a day.
Schedule full.
Location of the heart of things
clearly in view.
Gadgets with buttons and bells
allow the haste of the day
to multiply like hammers and the rasp
to wear us down--

penetrate our peace
with the steel tip
etching away at the surface
into the heart of things

until we disappear
into the din of despair,
unseen in the clutter of things.

Into View

Feast on the peaceful moon
that hangs silent with Orion
as winter settles into night
like a bovine dream.

The clouds mottle the sky,
the darkness and silver a puzzle,
pieces missing and gaps present
where there is plenty to share
of the blemishes of Spirit.

Take me by the hand and  breathe deeply
as if prayer was a remedy for anxious adolescence
and by tuning in to the inhalation
and the exhalation
we can wrestle the universe
clearly into view.

Everything

If I were queen
my shrine would not be hasty collections
of jewelry or shiny objects of desire.

No, if I were queen,
it would be different.

We would barter
face to face for loving kindness
and crisis would be given no heed.

That object of suffering
would be cast aside
with the beggars and thieves
of too much time.

If I were queen
we would hold hands, old friend,
and sing songs everyone knew
and pray to a Creator
who loves us all
enough to let us walk away
from the confines of a single lifetime
into the sunset -- dancing
as if nothing and no one
was more important that moving
our bodies in joy--

like our voice raised
meant harmony
and the attunement of  souls
who need to touch belly to belly
playing at everything
we ever wanted.

The Kindness of Intimacy

Drunk on the kindness of intimacy,
I presume the space shared only by the sweetest loving
and recite, with ease,
the prayers of a righteous woman.

The nuance of naked skin
is a festival dancing by warmth of wild firelight.
fingers tracing the edges of sanity
as if reading God precise words
and speaking of better times
in spirit tongue
to the angels.

Rejoice as lips touch strong water
and lift manna, delicate as wings,
from the harvest we gather
from the bones that remember
all the lives we've shared.

Headache

This dull ache,
this divine plague,
is an omen

a knowing
at the base of the skull

a nod of assent
to exhaustion
and lack of true peace

Suffice it to say
this mouth full of rust
is ready to speak

all that must be said
to heal
and drift off
into the forgotten
language of dust.

On Meditation

Wait for a while at the side of this path of meditation
and you will notice, if you are lucky,
the simplicity of each inhalation and exhalation
and fighting to just keep pace with the busy mind.

There is no way to quantify kindness
like this simple act of each human life.

The act of breathing is the skilled
and mindful mining of the essence of air.
That generous openness is all that is ever necessary
to let the lungs nurse a life
from each individual breath.

And on this morning,
sitting quite as a lily on the surface of the pond,
I will sojourn on the edge of a pillow
in the middle of abundant love.

The Midwives of Winter

In the deepest cold
we, the creatures of the north,
exchange pithy glances
beneath our layers

mumble under our breath,
nearly frozen and stiff-spined,
muttering something about the sun shining
or the lack of snow.

The most shrewd survivors
of the climate smile,
lips sticking to teeth
and eyelashes careless,
tears gathering like icicles,
yet non-responsive to the staring of strangers.

We are the midwives of winter
coaching the determined through the crowning
and toward the birth,
even when others have given up hope
of ever seeing spring slip through
without a bit of pushing.

We wait with faith and the understanding of the turning of everything
toward light and that the earth under the gathering snow
will warm and deliver us with the delicate joy
of the most secular of flowers.