Wind in Maple Branches

The moonlight
and the soft and steady
wind in maple branches
are a testimony to the sweet water
brought gently from the roots,

against gravity,
common sense,
and all the exotic forces
of the spacious sky;

the aromatic night
extracts beams of flavor
from the wormwood energy
that is more harsh, bitter

than a broken promise
and digs deeply
into the loam
rich with knowing
what will never

come close
to confection
at the tip
of so many betrayals.

Leggy and Aching for Warm Earth

This bright morning is crisp,
festooned with the transient light
that always tumbles into a new day,

an eager heart
done with the rambling
and the telling of constant mourning
transformed into the joyful faces of red blossoms,

like geraniums in tin cans
on a windowsill, leggy
and aching for warm earth
and room to spread roots
into the mother's breast

and stretch into awakening
and laughter with a breath of spring.

Limping Past the Tomb

The splinter of a thistle
meddles with the burden
of my feet as I walk along
a path away
from the steel bars
on the open door
of another dungeon
from which I have escaped.

Just in time,
I scrape my own shadow
away from the way
she seems to have ensconced herself
in all the patterns
of freedom I'd forgotten
while bending away
from all sources
of light.

I limp,
wince as I struggle
to carry the true self
past the tomb

and pass by all the others
who will never feel
the royal thorns that bring blood
to the surface
of this mortal skin.

Antidotes

The wasp of desire stings me,
sharp and deep as any craving
that always pilfers
the calm I cultivate
on the meditation pillow
at dawn.

I will wash my mind,
cleanse the tongue of my thoughts
that clatter on about antidotes
for the common cold.

Instead, let my breath take me
to bed where I will gentle my soul
with the ease of pillows
and heavy comforters.

Let me drift into that place where night
becomes day, death becomes life,
hate becomes love,
and nothing becomes everything.

Climate Change

Rumor has it
that the mercury

in this global climate
is festering with deep infection

that melts us,
folds in on itself

and then disappears
into the faces of our neighbors.

His brown face
and black eyes, glancing,

will touch the tender skin
of a blond body

at the moment of meditation,
and souls switch, in silence,

without anyone knowing
any better.

Her red curls
skip and sing

against the prayer rug
of a total stranger

and never miss
a thing.

Every Trail

The sliver of wind
that lands on a chapped cheek
as March roars in
delays the heart
from falling
in love with spring.

This fierce lover
is not to be trusted
with all he brings so fast
and biting like one too eager
to prove himself against the night
or some other gunslinger.

Remember the baptism
to which all those who are awake
are called.

These waters are the rains
that will bring blossoms.
These waters are the soothing ties
of all healing.
These waters anoint us
with tears that wash
the dust from our feet
that carries all the sorrows we gather
from every trail
we have ever walked.

Healing Cup

The pallor of my body
at this thinning time
of changing clocks--
full of moonlight,
soothes the florid mind
on a day needing the unguent
of abundant whispering touch.

Debride my wounds of the gritty gravel
of the dust from which we come
and deep silver slivers of unkind thoughts
and words that have damaged me so deeply.

Release me from the sin
of wanting to know
nothing of this world.

The cup I desire
is filled with the sweetest wine,
exhausted by the crumbs
falling from the lips
of so many mouths.