Owl Song

It is suddenly March
and the sun has come,
creeping back in the direction
of my windows
so that the geranium I saved
from the outdoor place
of frost before winter
has cast out hope
in the form of red
brilliant blossoms
and new shoots
of green smiles
and their undeniable life.

Last night
at this same window
the lonely sound of owl song
came to find me
in the unexpected splendor
of alone.

Who would have predicted
I'd prefer solitude calling from branches
of tall pine to the hungry arms
of expectation?

Who would have known
that a few tender words
and stolen kisses of light
would fill me with the echos
of night birds
calling to their lovers
before the feasting of the shadows
nearest the heart?

Tonight I will sit quietly again
as the sun sets to the magic blue
of spring melting snow
and practice waiting
for nothing
near the red of another years' flowers

and the haunting silent flight
toward the question
of so much grateful love.

The Galaxy of Faith

Under the surface of my skin,
somewhere in the smallest muscles
of my body,
I am always preparing
for happiness.

At the cellular level
of this inner galaxy of faith
flesh is filled to drunkenness
with joy.

The ship readies herself
to set sail
past the danger
of mythology
and charts her course
toward the center of all truth,

where islands of peace float on calm seas,
kindness is ripe with abundance,
and angels
hover close
with the song of God
on their breath.

Giving Up The Night

Raven clatters against the window at sunset
announcing the darkness
that comes with the leaving
of the light.

The lattice of lace
can’t stop the bristle
at the back of my neck
where I hold the thought of sleep
as a memory ground finely
into the stars that become
the flashes of Aurora Borealis,

illuminating the calendar
that would like to beckon spring
but has lost the words
for those younger parts of the body
that can make love
and simply regenerate themselves
into something whole,
something absolutely new.

Why then, am I bargaining with a song
I don’t know anymore
and holding the tattered wings of a monarch
who was too weak to fly over the mountains?

Perhaps it is time
to give up the night—
let the windows fly open
and allow all the ghosts
and chance to come closer,
to take their places
next to me in my single bed,

let the ocean
that could be love
wash over me
and plant pearls
along the chord of my spine
where I’ve learned to stretch
into the shell of myself,

give up the night
and the time it takes
to close my eyes
and instead descend
into the ebony wind.

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.