Gone Again

Trace the yellow-gold petals of a daffodil across your cheek
and you will know the truth of angel's wings
flying close to the earth
when all hope is gone
again.

The Glitter of New Coins

Robins tumble across the grass in this damp wind

like leaves tossed at will by a restless God.

Rain, though cunning, cannot melt their rusty hearts.


And the tiny alchemy of finches

turning from winter

is enough to quicken

my breath

and to see the grayest season

will change into the glitter

of new coins.

Draped Over the Arm of a Disappointed Angel

My feet are tired from this unyielding dance--
blistered and broken from the meaningless effort.
My mind is blurred from a swirling that does not bring joy--
this kind of amnesia is numbed from misuse of unimportant pink gauze.

To make things worse,
I caught a glimpse of unkind words
describing my profile
in the mirror.

I am stooped as all losses are,
always lacking the source of an arabesque,
and my soul is draped like a death cloth
over the arm of a disappointed angel.

On the Shores of the Beloved

The supple skin of the ocean's twilight
flaunts God's variegated face with
waves of determined love.

We are only the audience
to this wide stage
waiting to be entertained
and purified as a baby dripping
with baptismal waters.

Leave this old life behind
and imagine the future
by the osmosis of the soul
into the many souls.

In that serrated understanding
we must make peace
with our very tears of farewell
like a bride finding her new home
on the shores of the Beloved.

Children and Their Mothers Will Walk Slowly

This city has practiced the evacuations
for decades waiting for the explosion
to cut with a polluted blade
into a sky that branches
toward heaven
every day.

Fear roamed free as a vagabond
hopping off the midnight trains.

But morning has come creeping in after the darkness
and the shop keepers sweep the walkways with determined vigor.

Now it is gratitude that fills the air
with silence that peals as loudly as a heron's joyful wings
as she lifts herself and all the hopes of the quorum
and the milquetoast minds
in a sigh of relief.

Children and their mothers will walk slowly
toward the edge of the river
and lift bright eyes to watch all the birds fly
to a peaceful night's rest.

End of the Year

Sometimes the expectations
at the end of the year
are stifling
when you'd rather sidle up
to the generous uncle
and his mirrors of impunity, the favored child
never held accountable
for the multitude of sins
that gather around,
appreciating the way he is disinclined
to tell the secrets
of the grueling work
of all our human frailties.

Walk with me, he says,
to the end of the street
to the grimy bus stop
and wait patiently
while the calendar folds
for the last time
and argues for the opportune moment
to breathe the diesel smoke
of change.

The Last Day of Pleading

You've carried around the reproach
long enough in all this brackish longing
until the ghastly broadcast

permeates the nostrils,
every sensibility,
and offers divination

as a solution to the question
of where the soul belongs;
a sacrifice.

You've carried around the reproach
in a wheelbarrow
because the sin you found
is too heavy to lift

even with a strong back
pleading to be yoked to God.

The angels have given up their vigil
and have gone back to their gardens
to tend the sweet lavender of slumber
and to press you into deeper service

once you finally awaken
and the inquisition of the mind
yields to the wisdom of the heart.