Climate Change

Rumor has it
that the mercury

in this global climate
is festering with deep infection

that melts us,
folds in on itself

and then disappears
into the faces of our neighbors.

His brown face
and black eyes, glancing,

will touch the tender skin
of a blond body

at the moment of meditation,
and souls switch, in silence,

without anyone knowing
any better.

Her red curls
skip and sing

against the prayer rug
of a total stranger

and never miss
a thing.

Every Trail

The sliver of wind
that lands on a chapped cheek
as March roars in
delays the heart
from falling
in love with spring.

This fierce lover
is not to be trusted
with all he brings so fast
and biting like one too eager
to prove himself against the night
or some other gunslinger.

Remember the baptism
to which all those who are awake
are called.

These waters are the rains
that will bring blossoms.
These waters are the soothing ties
of all healing.
These waters anoint us
with tears that wash
the dust from our feet
that carries all the sorrows we gather
from every trail
we have ever walked.

Healing Cup

The pallor of my body
at this thinning time
of changing clocks--
full of moonlight,
soothes the florid mind
on a day needing the unguent
of abundant whispering touch.

Debride my wounds of the gritty gravel
of the dust from which we come
and deep silver slivers of unkind thoughts
and words that have damaged me so deeply.

Release me from the sin
of wanting to know
nothing of this world.

The cup I desire
is filled with the sweetest wine,
exhausted by the crumbs
falling from the lips
of so many mouths.

Half the Moon

The sky swims
thick with light
and stars that hold
wishes like holding
the breath of a galaxy

until the laughter
of a woman opens her mouth
and the sound of water
springs into warm
and generous rains.

Half of a moon
is almost enough
when the earth stirs
beneath her brilliance,

a lover
waiting for his signal
to climb the trellis
falls through the window
into the arms of warm breezes
and sweetness of orange lily petals.

It won't be long until the moon is singing
and calls quiet as a nightingale
as the sun sets and darkness reflects
on the cool surface of enough sleep
to remember how to dream out loud.

Shadows of Flight

Robins used to be the sign I looked for,
the day when out of nowhere
spring would launch herself desperately
toward the sun and the freezing puddles
that tear the roads into heaving messes.

But today, the ravens return
as if beaconed by the ashes
of Lent.
These dark birds;
these shadows of flight,
hurl beaks and claws
as if they recognize my face
all these years later.

I have walked out of the desert again
and yet, these winged creatures,
not from heaven as they rest in the trees
over my head, call out to me, jabbing my sense
of my self.

I see the path
and it is not my job
to watch them watching me,
Stretching out
wing tip to wing tip
and counting all the shiny
stems of gliding from on high
to peck at all nature
of things.

God's Garden

In the morning
when my feet are naked,
cold and unattractive--

when my feet are nowhere near the softness
of a green and growing lawn
wet with dew,

let me admire
basil and dill seeds
that were given
as a gift of hope.

Let me dream about purple cabbage
and leeks, forget-me-nots
and marigolds,
that send delicate tongues
from the earth
to suckle the sun

like love at the breast
and love that is only understood
by touching the heart
that is cultivated
in God's garden.

Ash Wednesday in Vermont

It happens this way
in Vermont,

when snow feathers
light as ashes from God's fire

drifting over us all,
reminding us of love

that dances from heaven,
soundless joy

given as a gift
on the dirtiest gray days

in March.
Beauty mixed with air

and water frozen with dust
into the absolutely perfect faces

of children smiling
at tiny miracles landing

as angel kisses
on risen rosy cheeks.