Dark Time

The quest for truth
floats like candles,
bobbing in the cold night sea—
a breeze rippling on the surface
of the mind as an art.

I inhabit winter
like a furry soul hibernating—
slowly breathing,
slowly burning the stores
layered under the surface
of my skin.

I blow on these hot coals
in simple release.
I am warmed
by the universe
of kindness
I’ve found in the dreaming
of this dark time.

Now That I Have Wings

Now that I have wings
it is hard to imagine
pinning them down on Sunday mornings
long enough to squeeze
into the pews of a cavern
filled with hopeful seekers—
the fear and anxiety
of doing it wrong
dripping from the fibers
of all the garments
like sheep come in from the fields
wet into the barn
and hungry for spring grasses
in the middle of a long winter night.

There is no shepherd here for them.
Only empty stalls to be filled by wooly bodies.

I long to comfort them,
these gentle beasts who have no idea
what it is like to fly.

My hand brushing the tops
of steaming heads in this cold place
could give some assurance
like the smile of a stranger.
Instead they rush past me,
my legs bruised
by their panic to follow the others
toward the security of the place
they come to each night.

Blind
they will never
look up
and only bolt
at the sight of my shadow
that passes in front of them
while their heads are bowed
toward the earth below.

Blessed Trinity

I miss it--
the ritual of Sunday--
of forcing myself to get up
and make myself go out
to the place where other spirit seekers
gather together, look each other in the eye
and offer one another
even a sign of peace.

We sang.
Oh, we sang,
unashamed of harmony.
I’d belt it out in the pews
next to mumblers
and the deep rumbles
of elders who knew
all the songs by heart.

The courage it took
to bend down
upon entering God’s house
to bless my own head
with clear & holy water
and submit to that kindness
humbles me now.

Admitting the Father,
a son, and the ghost of a chance
could heal me
was enough for a while.
It was enough to open my heart
to the most sacred spaces
I come to with each breath now.

The alter of now is the table
where the sacred trinity
is light
is peace
and the most generous love.
Daily these blessings are served
for all who will take and eat
and be filled to overflowing
with grace.

Eyes Wide Open On A Snowy Night

Behind the wheel on a snowy night
I see beyond the blur in the lights,
to pine covered with downy feathers,
to the technicolor places in my body
that light up when I least expect it.
The headlights fade in this color.
The headlights can’t touch the darkness
like this rainbow in front of me.

I am never known by the thinking mind
but only in the body. That is how you found me
that ordinary day in some ugly office
waiting for the rest of your life
to happen. You tuned in to something beautiful
you didn’t know could exist in one body
and you wanted to be a gardener cultivating kindness,
you wanted to be a healer coaxing life into bloom,
you wanted to curl yourself comforted near
the deepest places next to the heat of this soul.

I imagine myself on this winter night
where whiteness wants to cover my tracks
flying into the skies on my own enormous wings.
They have been growing in my dream world
and in the places where the mind cannot follow logic.
It is the heart place that has encouraged this fledgling to stretch
her wings and find a long high meadow to soar.

Put on the leather gloves that will protect your painted arms
so that I might launch all of myself from that strong and safe place.
I don’t need a tether or a mask that covers my eyes.
I am awake and ready and the falconer is my protector here.
I will come back to you
after each flight
with the panorama
of the horizon
in the stories
and the poetry
we dare
to love.

Overboard

As expected as death by drowning,
my cup of wine is empty again—
drained by the constant thirst
that haunts the well
where wisdom left me hiding
in the silvery dark
of awakening.

Things are falling apart all around me.
Handles disappear in my palm before the turning
and paint fades to chips and smudges.
Trees explode all around me in the forest
littering the snow with their bodies.
The faces of all beings crease and hair turns
to the color of March in New England.

You have panicked at the sight
of yet another empty bottle of desire.
I excuse you from the bliss
you thought you didn’t deserve
and you escape into the arms
of someone else’s dreaming.

She is the anchor you toss over the edge of sleep
each night afraid to look down
and find the sandy shallows are gone.
The links of the chain you carry
speed so fast over the wooden bow this time--
rattling away the possibility of redemption
like the clacking of dice
in a game of chance.

You will look up and find my eyes
with your eyes one last time,
my sweet friend,
before the metal
drags you hopeless
overboard.

Six Kinds of Loneliness

The night before the brightest moon of the new year
I am six kinds of lonely.
I have carried armfuls of nothing
into the center of the old farmhouse
where laughter used to live,
doused the heap with love for all that emptiness,
and in the blink of that moment
a spark flashes into flame
and everything I ever imagined
falls to ash at the feet of this raw kindness.

I am so still tonight
that the door of my aching
stands open in the white cold
of so many stars.
My blood rushes into the frozen earth wounded
and I am rooted as oak and white pine
to this place of fear
and longing for another death
one breath by beating breath
at a time.

In this silence
you walk out of the woods
and stand so close
I can feel the heat of your body
radiating on my face.
Your eyes, bright as burning coals,
singe the ground where I stand.
I pull away from this flame,
where trouble touched me so tenderly,
and the ghost of you is gone.

My feet are slipping on the icy path,
and I must now endure
the scraping sound
of a single howl at this enormous
and empty sky.

New Year’s Poem

Time is falling all around us today,
white and swirling like the snows
on these frozen dirt roads
somewhere in the woods
of New Hampshire.

Such beauty, this time,
when the light has left us
tired of fighting. The cold melting on my face
is a relief to the sting of the wind
from yesterday and all that howling
and breaking of branches.

This winter blanket folds herself softly against me,
velvet as the lining of an elegant coffin,
inviting me, like a mother’s calm lullaby,
to crawl in, put my weary head down,
and close these eyes for a long sleep.

If only tonight,
at the end of the storm,
and the end of another year of trying
to command happiness to hold me at midnight
and look me in the eyes for a single, sweet kiss--

if only tonight,
at the bell of this new year,
I give away the dream like my last breath
and awaken tomorrow morning alone,
perhaps then I will finally notice
joy landing on my sleeve,
one delicate flake at a time,
melting gracefully
like the blessings
of the beloved.