Facing Winter

As I discharge my heart
into the cold of winter air

infused with the familiar
density of layers

where snow and ice
are nearly family
in a tomb of tundra
beneath my feet

Crystals of arctic memory
are a vaccine to my fear;

a crutch for the asking
while I slowly wander
numbed
and decreasing my steps
in this impossible dance,

come to me
as if a nymph from the frosty fields
and hold my hand through this constant storm.

I am a child dreaming

looking for the way
when the path is covered
by the blizzard.

of missing the sound of your voice
when the only color is a nothingness;

a desert of white
in the center
of my wounded chest.

Endings

At the birth of another year
we all wander out of the womb

with blood and an ache in the low back
where poison sits like venom

hands soothing with pressure
what must be cleaned

like a mirror cleaned with spit

Scrubbed with surrender
that only women know.
where this liquid retreat is a clock
that does not wither,

but illuminates and swells
with  the ways we chock
and wheeze, uncomfortable and

resigned to make the next days
worth every  moment of pleasure

not sacrificed without reward
or the common grace
of awakening.


No need to capitulate,
but make safe the way,
when the ending is clearly in sight.

Lost

I am resigned,
ashes of the woman I once was

assalted and surrendering

to the great draft of a life
lived under watchful eyes
of a god who didn't know
how to love
anyone

as much as he loved
himself.

I have become the diaspora
of my own soul's company,
wandering lost in the desert--
alone and thirsty for a retreat

where the bitter voice of warning
learns to forgive

and capitulation
is a solution
my many sisters and I
can learn to accept as ransom
for less than the truth

over strong tea
and sweet songs
are sung at the return
of the long
and darkest
winter nights.

Christmas Eve

At the pageant
the children,
sweet angels
and star-struck shepherds,
process like they own this sacred space,
resolving themselves,
with simple words and heavenly voices,
helping us to find the balance we lose
in the daily life of too much work
and not enough bowing of our heads
in wonder
at everyday miracles

like these perfect faces,
drifting in and out of magic,
like perfect etchings of ice
only caught on the breezes
of a single December night.

Wisest men need to kneel here
before this innocent beauty
and breathe the spicy air,
incense of purest youth
untouched by the dirty hands
of those who have forgotten
how to believe.

On the Day the Calendar Ends

On the +day the calendar ends+
I will meet you near words
that mean something,
say words that matter
as if they were vows read
in the table of contents
and in the next chapter
we are not afraid
to turn the pages.

I am hungry to hear this story of joy
as it flows like a flood
from the mouth of the river
held quiet in the silence of a dam,
the pool behind forcefully insisting
the boards be let loose
just in time to claim each moment
as the deluge of laughter
spills over into an ocean
of moments worth living.

When you watch the sun dip below the horizon today,
earlier than it has any other day in this year of sorrow,
find me and tell me that you want me
just as I am
and I will believe
you  might be right
about infinity,
that masterful master,
learning to rest
at the edge of understanding
and in the company simple kindnesses
of the hope of tomorrow.

Prayer for a Bad Day

You train yourself for courage,
that mountain of performance
at the core of searching
that makes you feel like a guest,
and not a resident,
where ever you go,

searching for a place to call home
when there is nothing but double the pain
when you fall helplessly
engaged in so many losses
no matter the color of the walls
or the hope of a single white curtain
in the breeze  near the open glass.

And now I offend you,
a slap in the face
by omission of another simple word,

not out of malice, but rather,
out of all the deaths I have suffered
without learning how to right the wrongs of the lines on your face,
how to ask for forgiveness of sorrows caused by not turning the corner,
how to slip out of the sweater of night where you wait for me
into the cool shining of the sea of your kindness
and learn to swim strong next to your full strokes
without fear
of the undertow
that will eventually
pull us all under.

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.