Right With the World

Figure this--
the harvest will be early
and the skies will be bright someday.

On most days the sheen of happiness
is the only varnish you need
to make it through,

God willing.

When we kneel to pray,
don't forget to think of those
you don't love.

It is what we are called to do.

Love is all there is
to make things right
with the world.

In Respect for Spring

This coy day
folds in on itself
as winter wears out
like sweaty hands
wiped on an apron
or thrust into deep pockets.

This tired hour
has us longing for more
before the clock runs out
and we are asleep again
against the cold and dark grief
that is caught as a lump
in my throat
just like the churning tangle
of my belly.

So many losses
to keep in one basket.
So many goodbyes
I have lost count
of endings.

Fool the stars
and pretend it is spring
on our doorstep
and the tulips can't wait
to pay respect to the warming
earth.

The Turning

In New York
sleep was a  blessing,
A simple gift of grace
that crept past the sound of horns
and the backing and clanging gongs
of trash trucks,
of sleepless dreamers
dancing below and screaming
in the way city people do
at night.

In the filth of constant lights
there is a joy that lazes
and is less and less detectable
below the patina
where everyone must scrape and scratch
to the joy that lazes like laughter
in copper.

The rapid walking;
heels clicking
with collar turned up
against the wind--
enough to make
everyone turn and look
at silence fallen like blocks
pushed over again and again
by an eager toddler.

Stop at the window of the bakery
and catch a glimpse
of the gray ghost
you are becoming.

Lost in the vapor,
less than an exhale.

Lost in the vision
disappearing around the corner
of my eye.

Clearing My Voice

I claw at this voice
hoarse and full of thorns.

My words are trapped in the briars
like a rabbit not clever enough
to escape.

I would be immortal,
a scarab of golden permanence,
if only I could find the way

to clear my throat
of all that is misplaced
and unholy.

Umbra

This darkness,
this place of abandoned light,
is stuck in my throat
like the dark side of the moon
and colder.

I am a vacuum
in the shade of my life
with no chance
to find a full breath.

Leave me
and my deepest bleeding
like generations of crones
who can't see themselves
in the mirror.

I am lost
without hope.
The brilliance of that sun
is forever in the shade
of another tree
and her many leaves.

These branches
sway in a wind
that cries
with nothing
to lose.