On Hearing Thunder at Dawn

The rumble,
the low hum of love’s thunder,
arrives with this day—
the storm of cleansing rain
blessing my soul’s home
with the force of God’s voice
whispering in my ear.

I am beginning to believe
in each morning moment
where inevitable smiles
signal the welcome
of the invisible hand
of a lover I have yet to know
and who gently strokes my skin
with hope.

Mist has risen
from the tired and aching heat
of the earth
where the first cut of June hay
is soaked by the unexpected clouds.

The farmer—
who worked so hard.
sweating to gather this early light—
digs his toe
into the thirsty soil

not in disappointment or regret

but rather
thanks the sky
for the answers to his prayers
to be washed
and to breathe each breath
in peace.

Morning Poem

The trembling leaves
of my hope
are tender and still
pink around the edges
of the green and golden light
of another
new May morning.

Fear and the iron taste
of aching anger
no longer live
at the base of my brain
but have been abandoned
near the sea’s shore
for the first tide
to wash these deaths away
with salt
and the vigor of cold waters.

Hold me to your chest
like breath returning
to empty lungs.
Feel the warmth of my hands
over your heart
where blood flows red
with the kindness of only truth.

It is at the remembering of this purity
that I wish to awaken
every day.

Psalm

How I have learned
to be without want;
to lie down my heart
so that comfort can be
as still as water at dawn
where not even the wind
dares to disturb the calm.

Restore my soul
and explain righteousness
for my sake.

Yes, I have walked
through places the color of sorrow
and with the ringing walls of emptiness.
I have learned that fear
is illusion, and alone
is a state of mind
when a feast of kindness
awaits me,
anoints me with joy
until I am filled,

drunk by the cup
my lover has handed me.

Surely goodness and mercy
are with me as I gaze at spring
and I take the keys,
turn them in the lock,
and gather the treasures of my life together
to sing the prayers of a monk,
repeat the chants of a warrior,
and form the notes
in the mouth of a woman
who is remembering
the words
to the most sacred of songs.

Finding a Crocus in the Grass

You gasp
and run to me
like only a small boy can

with delight at the wonder of finding
the color purple
in the brown grass
before spring has her way
with the sun

A single crocus
makes herself known
in the midst of that nothingness
so that you might pluck her
and present her
to me,
your adoring mother.

Miracles like this
are only for sharing
with this kind of unconditional love
between us
like a secret kiss,
like a longing unfulfilled
for a thousand lifetimes.

Blossom

Watch me blossom
like this day
where spring has arrived
at the party
ready to laugh
and drink deeply
of the golden light
that lives in the bottom
of the cup.

Watch me blossom
like a tulip
wound tightly
by winter
bursting open
with no understanding
of beauty
until you discover color
in the garden
next to a melting
mound of snow.

Golden

What possesses the bee
to fly from flower to flower
unknowingly gathering grains
of life force
free while sipping endlessly
drunk on sweet nectar;
tasting the color of light
in her small humming mouth?

Travel mile after mile
in the service of happiness
you will never see;
a queen who buries herself
in the center of the colony
away from the beauty
that lives alone
in the world
among soft petals,
delicate perfume
and you may almost
lose yourself.

Any yet,
something golden
brings you home.

The tilt of the sun
at the setting of stars
in the vast darkness.

The inner compass
pointing always west
like wind.

The scent of honey
on your breath
as you kiss
the reflection
of your heart
in the mirror
of one moment
of another
lonely
day.

The Wind in my Face

There is a place
in the folds of my mind
where the wind blows
almost constantly

from the early morning bird song
to the light leaking from the sky
into the empty silences
of night.

That is where I have pinned my soul
to a clothesline
with wooden pins
bleached by the sun

and all that cleans
and whitens the grey that gets caught
in the fibers of all the days
between January and December
will be washed away.

It is the strong light
and the fast air
that will strip the smell
of dark thoughts
and fade the stains
of blood wounds
from the linens that hang out
in this open prairie
of my heart.

The hands of women
know this easy work

of sharing hope with space

and how to make new life
out of cloth
woven from tough and beautiful
threads of dreaming.

Take my breath away
with joy.

Let me stand facing the sweetness
of the coming storm.

I will gather the dry garments
I have come to wear
in creaking wicker baskets
moments before the rain cuts loose
and is delivered
from the heavens.