Near Midnight

The tea
in my cup
has gone cold
near these abandoned poems
and the pen that has written them.

I sip the sweetness
without heating
the dark comfort again;
letting the unwanted
losses empty into my mouth.

It is a long ritual
to read the words aloud,
scratch out a word or two,
and surrender to the call
of midnight
and the longing
for the false hope
of sleep.

I pick up the cup,
wander through the kitchen
like a dream,
and climb the stairs
to the singleness
of my bed.

Potage

The simple menu
is bread and hearty potage
made of the abundance of the land
nearest us.

We light the candles,
bow our heads,
and look one another in the eye
long enough to notice gratitude
for the loving kindness
present at the table.

Laugh with me.
Sip table wine.
Tell me a story
to sustain me
another day.

Into The Darkness

The night awakens slowly
to an Advent sky
awaiting some old sun
that is long gone
under the cawing
of darkness.

We are breathless
and cold on these days,
forgetting comfort
and the weightless light
that allows us to fly.

Crouch nearer to me, Love,
nearer the gravity of earth
and help me to launch,
push into the darkness,
past the waning moon
and into all the inspired stars.

What We Carry
-for Ruth

Open any woman’s abundant pocketbook
and you will see
what she carries
to make it through
her days.

The shopping list.
The list “to do” jotted
on the back of an old envelope,
A comb
and a few coins
for the ferryman, pens, cough drops,
lip stick, ticket stubs,
earrings, apple slices and a few almonds.

Tissues and tablets for pain,
a wallet for photos of so many children
and a license to drive—
keys to everything.

But you carried us all
in your womb,
in your heart,
in your arms.

You carried us
in your dreams,
in your prayers,
in your hands.

You carried us in the river
of your body’s blood
to lighten our load,
to help us to see

to the ends of the earth
where memory
of the great ocean
of laughter
and peaceful words
lives in each wave
that touches our feet
on that path
across the sandy shore.

Harvesting the Bodies

It was the November day
for harvesting the bodies
of the many flowering souls
who lifted arms
and smiling faces to God
all summer long.

I waited for the blue bachelor's buttons
and the brown husks of sunflowers,
cosmos pink,
and abundant purple moon flowers
as they gasped their last breath of the season--
as they fell to the earth to be gathered
and put to rest.

Such daisies danced near the black eyed Susans.
False indigo and bee balm,
mint and foxglove tumbled
after the blade and my small hands
said goodbye for the winter.

The sharp spade cut the skin of dirt and grasses open
just long enough to tuck the hearts of daffodils,
a few tulips, crocus, and snowdrops
into the cold chest of darkness
to wait for silence to unfold
one petal at a time.

Contemplating an Afternoon Nap, November

The grasses are honey
and swaying liquid light
where the swamp chirped and croaked
last summer, fire flies twinkling
and flirting with the night.

The bones of these slender bodies
chatter in the breezes now,
barely able to speak
except to balance between the whisper
of November shivering
and the howl
when the darkest blizzard
is yet to come.

I huddle with my strong tea
while the ocean of honest autumn
laps at the shore of my consciousness
and begs me to close my eyes for a few moments.

It is enough to rest
while the afternoon
gulps and rushes off,
slamming the door
before another day escapes.

Time Change

The darkness comes early again
and the stars are neon signs
along the galactic highway

engine brakes sputter
and shake my frame,

like stopping at the bottom
of this hill

really matters.

The words of the priest this morning
reminded me that I am worthy
when I am at my worst--

that my hunger, poverty, and tears
are enough to change nothing
into something almost
as easily
as turning
back

time.