Bear Cave Dreaming

The fall nights
have begun to curl
around my body
in bear cave dreaming.

The thick fur and comfort of these skins
breathe softly at the back of my neck,
spooning into the small of my aching back,
washing away the drought and the heat of summer
with the slow, gentle rains
of unconditional love.

On flickering days like these
we absorb the nourishment
of moss and acorns,
pine and granite,
and the encouragement of geese
calling in the highest blue.

The days shorten as we turn again
into the constant change,
eclipsed unexpectedly by the rejection
of the sweet abundance of the sun,
heading south to be buried
deep inside the earth.

It is no wonder
the heat of our awake
and glowing fires
have come to the stone womb
in order to gather the necessary strength
for the long sleeps that bring freedom

found in the humming silences
of the mother
living in the dividing cells
of our marrow--

in the multiplication of love
we open our eyes and see
shining clusters of truth
in the smiling face,
at the upturned corners of the mouth
of the most beloved--

in the divine yawning that signals
this launching into the endless flight of slumber
we notice our slowing breath
and gaze with joy at the weightlessness
of moment after moment
of release.

For Joy

Remind me to breathe
next time you look me in the eye,
your soul swirling
in the delicate glass
of my body.

The fragrance of your voice
remains as memory—
the slow notes of jazz piano
needing tuning—
sweet as you hold me close
dancing in the kitchen
while preparing buttered toast
with apricot jam
for late breakfast

and then back to bed
again for loving the light
in the softest folds of skin
at the spaces between fingers
and on the grand desert
of my belly marked again
by the violence
of healing.

Hold me in your arms
and remind me
to take the cool air
of this fall evening
into my marrow
and I will bow
to the sacred blessings
left wanting in the dust
that collects
at your imperfect feet.

Remembering my goodness
is as simple
and brilliant
as opening my heart
to listen to the silent movement
of the kindness of giving up
everything

for only this joy.

I Like it When it is Quiet
after Pablo Neuruda

I like it when it is it is quiet
as the break of early morning
and the dream of you
is still warm on my lips,
your fingerprints
still smell sweet
on the wounds in my side.
It sounds like nothing
as I scan this body for life
and emerge as though I was a visitor
or a solitary butterfly landing
on a single, dewy blossom.
This silence is so close
I am almost absent,
distant and painful
as flight.

The Gathering

The light is beginning to fade
at the edges of the sky
earlier and earlier
so that we might
begin to forget the longest days
gently.

The sun leaves us
with the heat of the earth
and we begin to gather
the harvest of another summer
into shadows and glass jars
like it was possible to bottle
forever.

Today you have journeyed again
to the ocean to swim with the salty waves
and play in the fountain of some other truth.
The message you send from that light, that ultimate grace,
is that you are gathering the bounty of the watery body
so that I may not go hungry.
You gather the essence of all loneliness
and fill it up with your enormous heart
and send it with blessings of abundance
to everything I have ever wanted.

What fear is there
when we share this feast?

What regret is possible
when you hold your hands out
willingly signaling a clear sky
and the path to all that is--
the fire of the gathering of good souls
who have lead the way
to the center of knowing.

I can only wrap myself in this promise of the moment
and bow to the warmth of your skin
against my skin
and know that we are awake
like the harvest
of light
into
the sea of stars.

Wishing Stars

Love,
when I am no longer body
and you have watched
what is left of my flesh
slip through your fingers

scatter my ashes into your morning
tea and remember the sweetness
on the heat of your tongue,

remember the words
that last longer than a lifetime
dedicated to the muse
of joy that laughed
at our pleasure
in the silence
of our breathing
at the edges of lips
and tender skin,

remember the treasures
no one but those truly awake
to each other
find in the depths, the thirsty wells
of a lover’s eyes.

When the frost comes
bury the earth of my red hair
with the daffodils and tulip bulbs
so that I might bloom
in golden and purple healing,

or if you can’t bear to part
as the light is leaving the skies for winter,
offer me in spring
to the roots of pumpkins and tomatoes
who will gladly take my cells
and rebuild them
into the candlelight
we loved to savor
in the music of evening.

If all else fails
and your courage is gone,
walk into the enormous love
of the sea
with my remains clutched
nearest to your heart
so that I might hear the waves
beating there one last time
before we sink into the depths
together to wait
for our next lives

shining in the truth
of the brightest
wishing stars.

Of Nothing

Resting on the shore
of your body
I am silent
in the muted light
of a half moon.

What joyful dream is this
that allows me to return
to this safe haven
time and time again
with a key to kindness jangling
in my otherwise empty pocket?

The water surrounds us
on all sides
of this island of compassion.
Here the treasure
is buried under
the surface of our skin
and in the wide open cavity
of our hearts.
The world is an unnecessary map
as we have discovered everything
glittering and gold in our loving.

You crawl in to the secret of me
and appear as if all purple
and lush green light
has been extracted
from the night’s sky
and arrives fully formed
in the smile you have delivered
freely from the promise
of nothing.

I breathe as if remembering
10,000 lifetimes
and have whispered the words
of a prayer taught to me
by every other
mirrored image of you.

Anniversary of Air

It is the mist of August
that descends like a sleepless woman
into the trees,
where the earth has no beginning
and looks like the sister
of the end of time,
where I open the door
to the memories that throw shadows
on the fire of what might have been enough.

In this dream
that is always beginning
you are the mirror of my lover,
flow blue
as button posies
in the moonlight
and speak to me
in the hushed language
of God.

In this dream
that is always beginning
we exchange bodies like madness
while the river disappears behind the bend
of our thoughts.
Here you embrace me
from the inside out
and eternity
is only a long hesitation
while we practice our sighs
like breathing
toward permanent change.

Meanwhile, the news from home is easy
and says “Look at the calendar.”
and notice what day it is
and you will understand
that today is the day
straw turned to gold
and that the anniversary of air
has changed each day
we have lived since then
because we have dared to embrace
the sin that is rightly ours.