The Damage is Done

Sharpen the blade,
an old fashioned strop will do nicely,
and sulk away from the smirk
carried in the dream
where someone always beats me
to the finish.

My mood droops again
and I am caught wishing
these swings were something
to cut away swiftly--
like the removal of bandages
that must be changed
so that healing might
be apparent.

Walk,
or run,
near that glistening edge.
My mother was right.
The damage is done
even when you don't mean
to fall.

The Way Your Skin Moves

In another life, maybe your next life
or your last life . . .
Notice the way the slack in your skin moves
and pledge to make things stronger,
tighter so that your children and other strangers
have no need to stare, cocking their heads
and squinting their eyes to see if they might crop
that part of their view.

You might promise anything to keep the well worn
paths free of rubbish and instead plant flowers
and leafy greens and vines that tangle themselves up
in the sweetness of cucumbers and melons
you had no idea
would grow
in this climate.

Loosely Dressed Morning

This loosely dressed morning
falls asleep on her hand,
a drivel of drool at the corner of her mouth
anticipating nothing.

The nausea
of long skirting the subject
to be debated is finished. 
The awaited anxiety
disappears
only to be discovered
under the bed
by the woman
who cleans every other week.

If we exhale too quickly,
we blow out the candle
waiting in the window.

If we inhale too slowly,
we risk meditating
on grief
and the pain
of knowing
too much.

No Questions Asked

Glisten.
Let the sun swell
on the horizon of this day
and shine, hot and brilliant
as mornings often do
while we shuffle.

Bustle.
Move, move, move
your hands like you are busy
making lunch for a child
or for someone who really matters.
but move so you sweat,
lightly at first and then run
like your life depends on it.

Because your life does
depend on that speed
and the density of everything
coming to a stop at the corner sign,
no questions asked.

Generous Suffering

Be generous as you carry your hidden hurts
out of those dark places, concealed
and, frankly, dangerously balanced

until your soul pleads
to be given permission
to bundle the small sheaf
of plump and nourishing truth

until you walk a thousand miles
on your knees nearly arriving at the dooryard
of everything you love

weeping at the familiar faces
who welcome you home,
no longer a stranger
at the holiest table.

Audience Of One

The pink rose in the tall blue vase
might be the focal point of all beauty today.

My flaxen self flees into the peace of that softest color.
My heart is the bee that knows nothing of the flower
collecting grains of attention
gently on every fiber,
weaving loving kindness
like pollen on a sunny morning in June.

If I were not so alone
I would be that much closer
to the solitude

of the single stem
resting like a dancer
before her audience
of one.

Holding Our Hands

Dine on loving kindness
like each moment is a savory morsel
of beauty and words
the lingual equivalent
of something sticky and double chocolate.

Fill yourself with joy;
a banquet armed with laughing
until you cry,
until your sides ache,
until you surrender your face
to endless smiles that cause wrinkles
that prove happiness
at the end of your days.

Take, eat
all that is given up for you
in friendship and the shared sorrows
that are delivered to your door,
unexpected as an embrace,
for no good reason
other than to carry the warmth
of our soul's home fire
to the stranger
who has become
our sweetest companion
holding our hands
around the table
in prayer.