Wild Strawberries

Wild strawberries
the size of buttons
grow abundant on the farm
in Minnesota.

They are ripe
and ready
in time for pancakes
on Father's Day.

Pop a few in your mouth
while picking the dozens it will take
to flavor Daddy's breakfast
with butter and the maple syrup
we made over the slow
open fires
of almost spring.

The sun warms your cheeks now.
The grassy places
where you imagine your body away,

negotiate for wings,

are soft and sweet
and shimmering
with light.

Dreaming The Way Out

In the letter I write
to one of my imaginary friends,

the words disappear
from a screen into small particles
of dust that find their way
to waking eyes after a long sleep,

the mythology of danger
becomes just another romance
where you lay your head
and dream.

In this letter
I tell you
I have tasted
the sweetness of the apple
and liked it.

In this letter
I am not ashamed
of the impulse
to please my body,
let her touch what she will touch,
without losing her way.

In this letter
I recognize the power of scent
and the nose of the soul
finds her way home
even when the rain
has washed the flavor of oranges
from the ground under the four corners
of the feet.

This is, after all,
the grove all around me
and I have only
to reach out a hand
to find my lover
smiling
and his mouth dripping
with the juices
of the new morning.

To the Cyst Growing in My Belly

At first
I had no idea
you were there,
hiding on the dark side
of the ovary—

tendrils, tiny shoots
of root taking hold
of the orb.

You appeared
like a phantom
in a photo
of the womb—

more alone
than ground control
and the voice of a stranger
could make me feel.

But, there you were,
the size of a plum,
full of sweet water
and smiling at the trick
you’d played,
found in this game
of peek-a-boo
with your mother.

Surgery, the doctor said.
Removal, puncture, twisting,
death, hysterectomy,

or, at my frown-creased brow.

Wait and see
with needles and herbs,
talk therapy,
castor oil and heat.

Wait and see.

Take another photo
later.
Line them up
like the growth
of a healthy child.
Fat cheeks, giggling
curls.

I make conversation
in that dark place,
ask what the lesson is
in this holding,

in this secret language
of the body
trying to tell me something
from the inside
out--
like pulses
on a ticking
clock.

Translation

Sit next to me
in silent prayer
with your skin
delicately etched

examine the color
of my white covering
as if it was the most sacred text
to be handled with gloves,

carefully turning pages
worn thin by devotion
to finding meaning.

Nothing will be lost
in the translation
of the body
if you place your heart
at the center of the page

inhale ancient truths
waiting to be released
by your touch.

Servant Door

Starting from nowhere
I find myself believing in things
bigger than myself—
that fragile city
somewhere near home.

The dark is no longer
the servant door
at which I must enter,
invisibly,
but instead
becomes the gateway
of all knowing.

I have only to close my eyes for a moment
and the universe that gathers
in the grooves of your fingers
near the surface of my skin
erupts with the voltage of summer
storm on the edge
of still water.

Why then, live in doubt
of whom we must serve?

Believe in the sky
and the way love sits
at the base of the spine
waiting to be recognized
in laughter
or at the deep
echoing well
of eyes awake
and unafraid
to finally hold
your gaze.

At this open door
of acceptance
we will enter paradise—
entwined and smiling
at the promise
of thousands of tomorrows.

The Constitution of Winter

The constitution of winter
jingles in the trees
at the calm dawn.

Birds whose flight
keeps them constant in the cold,
twitter and chirp
with red squirrels
like shining crystals of light
and sound captured
in the moment
between sorting small logs
from heavy oak
into the sling I carry
to my hearth and the heat
that warms my belly and breath
where I sit
contemplating
the body
and the boundaries
of the mind.

In the quiet of my breath
I can see myself
sitting plain skinned
with no adornments.
I am stripped to the shell
of this dwelling
and only the fullness
of the spectrum
can enter safely
in peace.

So stark
this familiar
brilliance,
I blink
until my eyes water
tears of vibrant joy

and words trace the outline
of a smile,
the darkness
of an excited pupil,
the fine hairs
brushed with desire
at the curve of the neck,

and the memory
of the sound
of your voice
undoes me

as I follow the flight
of a smoky Junco
into the pines

where the meaning
of truth
in January’s expanding
white wave
is often found.

Talking to My Body

In this conversation
we begin at my feet
in the big toe
like it was the sun
at the center
of the universe
and all the little toes
planets circling
with a toenail for a moon.

Gather them in the growing darkness
like the beginning of a dream
that never ends
and place them gently
between the humming of the heart
and the glowing light of reason.

What meditation
would be complete
without the whispering mind
hoping to distract you
with a simple game of fate
like Rock, Paper, Scissors--
like Children, Lover, Daily Bread--
before you can bring the breath
to the bones of an ankle?

She is quieted
by the librarian's hush
of the nose inhaling coolness,
exhaling slightly warmer relief
from thinking.

Thinking about the color of the sky
or the tingle at the back of the neck--
but thinking then
about dropping the body
through the feet,
legs dissolving--
running out the bottom of the hourglass
until the buttocks and belly are focused--
the fire connected with the spirit.

Red cords longing to untie themselves,
release the body all together,
take flight from the chest and arms,
rising and falling at the evening knowledge--

waves of the voice calling,
singing to the third eye,
roots in the air--

the crown lifts to the stars
and we connect again
with the sun in the toes.

Thinking again of escape
from all knowing,
all temptation to talk to the stranger
who will require simple kindness.

Suddenly breathe
and fall into the depths
of silence.

Nothing is promised.
Nothing left behind.
Nothing to discover,
but the true self
across the table
as if sitting down
for tea.