Traveling East

There are a few items
buried deep in the sands of June or early July
where the wishes of the heart live as treasures
to be uncovered by the friend of this constant soul.

I am clearing a space on the slate
and have scratched a few clues
on the cluttered walls of the mess of the mind
that will help the skilled seeker
to find shimmering truths about joy
and other watery emotions
that carry us all to the end
of all knowing.

The message is simple:

When I leave for the sea today,
bring only what is needed.

Thick towels, salty almonds,
quiet voices, laughter,
fancy fizzy water,
a low chair and a mat for stretching,
stories about love and losses,
the French press and dark coffee,
lavender shampoo and vanilla lotion,
silence,sea glass,sand dollars,
the journal for poetry,
the books to finally read,
tender glances and gentle hands,
basil, lettuce, and radishes from the garden,
cold white wine and good bread,
slow dancing,
butter for baking,
smooth cotton sheets and a soft pillow,
one rainy day for puzzles and naps,
heated sand,juicy gossip,
unexpected singing,
peaceful afternoon tea,
vivid dreaming,
the moon's embrace,
and something golden
like honey to hope for.

This map, this passage,
will make the way clear
to the delicate edge
of morning after morning
where love lives lightly.

The Winnowing

These summer days
my mind is like a busy toddler,

fingers linger on ideas not mine to touch,
the mouth is parched for knowledge
resisting nothing sweet,

wanting comfort

wanting

babbling
babbling
babbling

the constant flow of day dreaming
in the depths of bones healing
from wounds where battles have worn
everything thin.

Redirect this path with the storming heart
clearing the horizon of all of the chatter –
from this constant distraction,
like a wind winnowing the plump seeds from the nothingness
before the force of life takes root in the richness of the earth.

Hover

As if we mortals
have any say in the matter,
we preen and dance with delight
on this day of the shortest night.

As if we have actual leverage
negotiating at the horizon,
marking our territory in the pink glow
at the edge of all knowing
with imaginary fireworks
and shooting stars.

Hover here with me, my love.
Our blanket is warm
and the air lifts fresh mowing
like incense to all these forgotten glances.

Hover in the silence as we melt
into the earth holding tightly
to joy and are broken open

and where our stamina
is measured by all the ways
we let go of every thing.