Dropped

At midnight before the next storm
I am blind, my hands frantic
against the walls
of alone again.
There is no language
for the color of this emptiness
that has dropped
from my hands
like the glass shattering
on the cold tile floor
of morning.

The sound of glass
cutting the flesh
of the night walker
is a gasp of disbelief.
I ask myself on the inhale
of this pain
how I could not have known
I would uproot my own betrayal
in the beauty of my spoiled garden.

And yet, another year has passed
just as the clouds will drift
over the green fields of spring.
The shiver of recognition
of all that precipitation gathering
in the corners of my eyes
and falling hopelessly onto
the stone cairns
I planted in hope
is a chill I can’t warm.

My journey is so long
and my burden of love is too great
to be abandoned and left
for the greed of the thieves
who will never pay what is owed
for my trouble.

Missing You Like a Woman Misses Her House
When She’s Been Away Too Long

Love,
I miss you
like a woman misses her house
when she has been away
too long.

I see the bright sun
in my kitchen and want
to light the fire
in the hearth,
cook with butter,
onions,
and fragrant spices
to fill myself up
with the thought
of coming home
to you.

It is time to wash
the sheets and hang
the comforter out in the wind
while I sweep and mop
the floors,
polish the windows,
and water the thirsty plants.

I can feel my fingers
deep in the dirt outside
in my flower beds
as I make way
for the roots
of coral colored petals
and the promise of
the nodding bonnets
of dragon lilies.

Let me brush the cobwebs
from the tendrils at my neck
and dust my skin and lips
with soothing ointments.

The door is unlocked.

The candles are lit.

The table is set
for a small, quiet supper
of longing.

Mardi Gras

Bitter coffee makes me think
of my mother’s Folgers—
the ground sticks and leaves blended
with careless beans
in the silver percolator
slurping in the early morning
before the day shift
at the hospital
or after a long night
holding the hands
of someone about to die.
We are all terrified
of that bitter drink.

But I am not afraid to swallow
white wine for the last time
or to give up the rotting cream
and sugar that coats my hungry tongue
at midnight, hours after my last cup of tea.

Tonight I will give up everything
for thousands of drops of water
meant to cleanse the corners of my soul.

Jesus did it—
a simple man of faith
gave his body
to the anointing of water
and the scented oils of redemption.

Why can’t I?

H2O is the formula, after all,
that will clear my mind of attachment
to the up and down of this childish see-saw
Marjorie Dawe—
the night terrors
where I can’t wait
to suffer.

In the dream tonight, alone in my bed,
I spin in no red gown.
Here in sleep I am more than ever
the Mardi Gras Queen
and will soon slumber
in my feathered mask
until the middle of April
or maybe for the rest of my life.

Today, on Fat Tuesday,
I can’t resist taking out
all my yard sale garbage,
displaying it carefully
in hope that someone will buy it—
cart away the kitch—
so I won’t have to burn it tomorrow
to make the ash I must smudge
on my face—
mark my memory
wtth the sign that reads
“Nothing lasts.”

I’ll hold my palms up
for the host tomorrow morning,
my fingers laced and prayerful,
expecting miracles
and finding only dust
on my lips
as I leave my words
and my sins
to rest.

The Hard Season
--on turning 44

February can be hard
when you live in a cold place—
a northern place
where the softness of snow
falling at midnight can suddenly vanish
into crusted ice and the dangling teeth of icicles
that hang ready to shorten
your already numbered days.

This is the history of forgetting
I’ve been born into—
the belief system
that stares back at me in the mirror
marking more than 40 years
on my face.

Time and the tilting earth
will bring us around
to spring soon enough
where all my daffodils
will push up laughing
from such darkness
and in that time I will learn
again to ignore the lines on this skin
and remember the joy of bright skies
and yellow.

There are times now
when I trace the letters of my name
for luck and to call abundance to my voice.
I am a beggar no longer
where I have learned to sing
with the birds and the wind.

On this road
I know where I live
and can easily find my way
even when the moon is dark
and the clouds hide the path
I’ve known by the stars.

The twin of my true self
is here with me now
reminding me of the small comfort
of hope I carry in the red beaded bag of my heart.
Together we pass by the house of Loneliness
and make our way toward a single candle
in the window of the night.

This light
is the constant prayer
of the coming year.

Love Song To A Husband

All these years
we’ve worked to look
each other in the eyes—
to not look away at the times
when the gruesome details
made us want to turn and run
toward some other truth.

That’s what honest love is
after all.

We’ve carried that burden of proof
all these years
innocent of playing guilty games
in secret places
where no one touches
anyone else.

We have been pioneers
in our own way
coming to the land
where our sons might grow
strong and brave among the trees
and hard granite ledges—
Walking the steep paths
ourselves—taking the hand of the moon
when we felt our feet slipping.

Today I stand before you,
before Cupid asks me again
if he should throw an arrow
at the broad target
of your heart,
to tell you that this is the best
I will ever be.

This is the harvest season of the essence
of my beautiful flower self,
where I must stand
open to the promise
of the widest skies.

Today, and every day after today,
I will let the bees come
and take all my love.

That will be the way
I will leave you, husband—

on the lips
of the hungry faces
of insects
who will never know
my real name.

Mending the Broken World

If you haven’t noticed
we are living in a broken world
where the Kingdom of America
is crumbling all around us.
We are the inventor of suspicion—
tea parties and horsemen
in the night
meant to protect
and defend
walk endlessly
away from Walden Pond
and that much hope.
Time now exposes all
our private scars—
near deaths
that act like theft
to our innocent
new beginnings.

Time now measures
the distance we have run
away from simplicity
and frugal ideals
that made our armor
trustworthy and shining
with courage to do the right thing.

I have noticed
the language of change
must be our famous last words
of men and the water of life that alone
will heal the deepest wounds of greed.
We must not shrink in the shadows of mistrust
wagging her scolding finger in our faces—
this mother spooning cod liver oil
into the mouth of Darwin’s Disorder.

Instead, let us smile,
pick up our hammers of truth and compassion,
while we get back to mending our broken fences.

Golden Rule

“Speak your truth,”
she said,
“Put your hands
near your golden voice
and sing the words
gilded with rich metal
and shine from the place
you’ve mined
the most precious nuggets.

Like a crown of fig leaves
preserved and shining atop your head,
you are royal in robes flowing with so much light,
displaying the birth rite of all who believe.

“You glitter,”
she says,
“and the dust of the stars
must remind you to see the whole sky
with an eye for opportunity.”
The temples of the mind
already sing your praises
as you learn to drop your body
and walk away
into the freedom
of darkness.

It means nothing
to hold gold coins in your pockets
like talisman against your fate.
Give them away
to the Palominos
of time.

Open your mouth,
give Midas a gentle word,
and dissolve into a sunrise
of silent bird song.

In this place of nothing you will break open--
pierced by a single ray of undeniable love.