Nothing More Than Flowers

Sweep your mind
posture after posture of pretense,
a lifetime of competing for a bold position
next to the master.

The heart treads lightly at dawn
ready to release the brow
from holding, like lace
unraveling all her stitches
at the tattered hem of accuracy
just for the sake of argument.

And when the soul is privy to heaven
and the wale of too much love stings sweetly,

let kindness extinguish the holding,
the unceasing friendship
that binds us to everything holy.


It is here that you will cleanse
the bones of your body
with God's words and let yourself pray
for another day to gather daisies
and purple-faced iris
into bouquets
of nothing more
than flowers.

Advent

 I am restored in this darkest season;
the agent of night who tiptoes bootless
down the aisle of the sanctuary of defeat.
The stars are becoming a luminous choir
singing a song so sweet and sincere
that even God listens . . .

and where the  sun forgets
that morning will ever shine again.

 I pace the cave of this longing
and let my hands follow the stone walls,
cold and slick with my grief.

The deliverance
of tomorrow,
the knowing
that there is so much more music
to return my heart
to the sound of love
and forgiveness;

this is the grace I pray for
as I light a single candle
and breathe in peace;
let my voice ring a single clear bell
of radiant hope.

When I Say I am Sorry

I am sincere
when I say I am sorry,
looking into the luminous face
of God
with regret,

plaster falling 
 with decay
signifying
the toll
the earth
has payed
on these shores
of heaven.

In the volume of time,
a renaissance of defeat subsides,

the tunnel of light from the sky
catches heat and slouches like a daisy
in the fullness of the late afternoon sun

before the coolness
of forgiveness
coughs sloughy
and full of regret
into the face
of a stranger
you have feared
all your life.

Enough

The heavy toll on the heart
nearly bursts these fragile walls,
pounding frantically on the long path
of confidence, the volume deafening;
severe enough make me question
my resolve.

I am a swimmer who will never make it to shore.
I am a maul with no wood to split into kindling.
I am calling out in the tunnel of darkness, echos
of my solitude close enough to signal
endings all around me;

the fire smoldering
in the corner
at the end of winter.

A race that cannot be run
fast enough.

Passing Judgement

I curl myself into this rough and demanding  place
inside myself again,
vesting my soul against the budding charm
of tradition that is not mine.

I'll accuse myself of love
like the stream of brisk consciousness
flowing past me one thought at a time--
fish that cannot be caught
but only swim by in a dream.

In the market square
of this dominion of damage
accuse me.
Judge me to the degree
that you dare throw
a stone
to apply
your form
of justice.

Force me
into silence.
Force me
to believe all
is lost again
just like every other day
I have believed
it might be different.

First

Some have promised
to pause in the barren Badlands
of my scarce affection.
Some have promised to let me catch my breath.
Some shine like the fresh coat of paint,
semi-gloss and premiere.

To rush at these moments, take everything I have owned
and deliver it across the expressions of grief
that nearly crush me.
Ensure that I will bridge this loneliness
and unbind my heart to be set free from the cages
made of steely promises.

Grant me the peace of open air,
smiling and bright as November mornings,
and I will walk toward joy
like I am greeting
Love for the first time.

Bring on the Nights

Let the thermometer drop,
red dipping low on that totem pole
scanning the lack of flavor;
no heat in the air.

I listen to the trees crackling
and cold as they contract into their bark,
their roots curl toes up,
branches brittle as bones.

Winter always scares the studio of golden haze
that raids the gardens of their wholly won delights,
green and sweet nectar abundant in the sun--
fingers holding greedily and tight to the brilliant bunches
of the easy life of July and August.

But I say bring the nights as soon as you can.
Bring the nights full of stars and breath that freezes
before it escapes easily to earth, astounded by the beauty of pinholes
that leaped into the heavens
and dance 
unafraid to be embraced
under thick blankets
of time twisting in a dream
of lovely gaps--

the truth of the mind
suspended in the subtle body
of time.