Transitioning to Grace

I wish I could tell you
or even myself
what happened
watching the moon rise
full over Mascoma Lake last week
my heart in lodged in my throat
my mind completely silent
but for the attention
to the mechanical buzz of light
that has taken up residence
in the connective fibers of my body.

In that almost November wind
the urgency to touch anything warm
to the palms of my hands
and the deep ache in my side
were finally quiet.
The air, full of the crisp coolness of fall,
went undetected by nostrils or nerves that might
register cold, even the light of the bright moon
became filtered, less brilliant
by the changing landscape of my heart.

I am numb in this place of cross currents and unsure
of what comes next.
I feel the soul’s trapped wisdom
in this newborn body,
where the exposure to the elements
rips my unwilling flesh raw.

I wish I could sing, chant,
celebrate this non-attachment,
but instead I moan with grief.

If only I could remember why I started
toward this big water,
perhaps then I might understand
why I am left alone again,
unable to make my way home.

Letting The Fire Take Us

How does one chronicle a life?

In letters. In photos.
In the people and places we’ve loved?

If a fire overtakes the house of one’s soul
what do we grab as we escape the flames
before the intense heat
turns our lungs into useless bellows
for the life force of the long days
and nights of breath?

Images of faces—
our baby selves
and our children’s bright new eyes
unable tofocus in all the light—

Our mother’s longing smile
at forty next to the lines that will follow you
into the next twenty years
if you are that lucky.

The embrace of a life folded
into the pages of albums and boxes
that pale in comparison to the memory
or to the life itself.

If Buddha took my hand,
lead me out of the flames,
sat me down next to his tree of abundance,
he would tell me to leave it all behind—
illusion and all,
notice the fleeting sense of permanence,
he might tell me not to burden myself
or my children with anything but the joy
and suffering right in front of us today.
The knapsack of this life is already heavy
and it is time to release myself
and continue on the journey
lighter than any heart has traveled.

I could give it all to the fire today,
every single item and misplaced trust,
even leave the ashes of my children
with no guilt or sorrow
for the promise of the path
beyond the farthest star.

I would easily fly away there,
never, ever come back
to these tired and charred remains
with a grateful smile
on my true face.

From that distant place
I might finally find peace.

Driving Toward Home

Today, somewhere near Charlestown,
or maybe it was Claremont,
I drove down Lover’s Lane
going exactly the speed limit
for the first time
in a long time.
I wasn’t in a hurry
to get anywhere.

On the seat beside me
was the dream of a box
shared with a heart
as sweet as the universe can be,
like the copper of November oaks
left to fend for themselves--
nothing but the grey sky
and the smell of snow
to keep warm.
Geese sing sleep as they pass
on their long flight to the river
just ahead of winter.

Meanwhile, the box remembers
the hands of her maker,
trembling with joy at the thought of that love,
that gentle touch.
It woke her before
from a sleep so sound
perhaps she had never been
this alive.

I was witness to another kind of love today,
just as pure as hers.
In that light I was smoothed
like stones,
removed of all my rough edges,
rolled by water and wind
of a storm no one expected.

Now I yield to my partner,
the universe. His will places his hands
carefully, solidly balanced in my core
where I could never go alone.

Talk Love To Me

Talk love to me.
Wrap your words around my waist
and pull me in
close to your belly
soft with breath,
guiding yourself into me
to the wet acceptance
of this spirit we share.

Your love came to me today
in the form of a tree--
a shower of sun yellow leaves
on Washington Street.
A wind blew your name
on my neck.

Lover, you can have me anywhere.
No body is necessary
when the spirit emerges
fireworks more brilliant
than all the individual joy
collected in one thousand lifetimes.

The thought of holding you
is so real
the ghost of you
becomes flesh again.

I take your words in my hands,
trace the shadows of your chest
with my mouth,
and guide you deep
into the core
of my flowering lotus.

Unexpected thunder rolls through my body
like a fire and I am released from my suffering
before it even begins.

The Virtue of Silence

I knew it was over
the day you told me
about the hike into the hills,
deep enough to find a cave
made for meditation

or if the sun shone
just right on the opening,
in the days that equal nights of the fall,
a place where you and I could strip down
to just our skin and merge
into that leaving light
and finally touch peace.

You said
you didn’t have time
to show your true face.
It wasn’t real enough for you
to take that risk in the shadows of faith.

The cave,
the place a womb could open
and birth pure love,
it is here you decided to take the path
another way home.

Though this heart couldn’t be any more shattered,
than it is tonight, a mirror always raises the pen
and puts words to the page
and writes an oath to the self.

I will not be the crumbs
you leave along the rocky way
to find your way back
to this longing.

If I am lucky
I’ll find my own cave soon,
crawl inside her warmth
and heal the hurts of all humanity.
Here there is no betrayal of hope
in the face of a deeper calm,
the tremors of kindness abounding.

You will shake the memory of me
from your weary travel clothes.
The virtue of this silence will save us all.

Leaving Desire

Close the windows so we can’t smell
the sweetness of the breezes
evaporating the dew from autumn leaves today.

Draw the blinds and pull the curtains tight.
The sun is too brilliant,
inviting us through soft fog
to walk in this morning, this new October.

I will stop cooking food
rich with butter and salted delicately to taste.
No pumpkin bread will emerge steaming hot from my kitchen
with cloves, cinnamon, or allspice.
Apples and peaches are now out of the question.

The sound of my children laughing as they play must stop.
Those smothering giggles of absolute joy are more than one woman
should endure.

I vow now to give up digging into the doughy dirt each fall,
placing the promise of daffodil, tulip, crocus in her breast.
There will be no purple hyacinth or Star Gazer lilies next year.
I promise to pull up the peonies and bleeding hearts.
And, my God, the daisies,
right at the roots, give them away.
My soul is at stake, after all.

Perhaps when my work is done
I will stop,
lie down in the quiet of my dying room.
Here I will find the courage to say goodbye to your face,
the feel of your hands at my waist
and the cupping of my breasts to your lips.
I will ignore the sound of your voice
as you say my name, low
in time to the skipping beat of my heart.

Finally, when I’ve done all that leaving,
I must quietly acknowledge my desire
to love your generous heart.

The naked truth of that absolute lust
must be locked away in the tomb I will occupy.
It is the clicking shut of that key
and the rattling of these chains of wanting
that will release me from all these illusions
and suffering attachment to this last life.

Evening Train

As I board another evening train toward grief
I have a confession to make.

I have begun to say farewell to this body
and to the paper men listed in my black bookof love,
like the log of endangered species
they might become
without my memory
or the chance of passion they found
curled inside of me—
the tendrils of my long hair
falling in the face of truth.

Tonight the bones of the earth
gleam in the fullness of moonlight
and I recognize the cool fire near this track,
my heart racing at the place in the throat
reserved for the holy communion
of looming loss.

I lean into the glass of this dark window
and will not deny the fear I find
in the face I see looking back.

After all, confession is all about fear.

The darkness of this place was meant to calm me
as I open my mouth to speak.
Instead, a lifetime of knowing rushes in,
humming like drones to a queen
and the healing silence launches into the skies.

I can feel these wings emerging white and strong,
sprouting from my shoulders, opening to victory.

Soon I will find the courage to open the door of morning
and take flight.
This view of heaven
just as clear as my breath.