Rising

The plight of another gray morning
is to throw off the quilts,
confounding the vapor of fatigue,

and rise as the hero
in my own story
against the thrum,

aghast at the thought
that I will not champion
each breath.

There is no retribution
as my feet touch
the cool wood of the floor,

only a chance for reflection
at the constant flow of curiosity
of what comes next.

Coffee, shower, selecting the costume
for the day. Oatmeal or toast.
Vitamins. Kisses from my children.
The car starting without a hack.

Pulling out of the driveway.
Arriving safely after an hour
of dodging semi after green Vermont plates.

Computers, conversations, endless meetings.

Laughter, hate, frustration, brilliance of kind souls.

Home to cooking.
Home to gentle light
at the end of barking orders.
Home to the comfort of night
in my simple bed
in my own skin
and with intentions
to leave nothing
in my wake.

Novice

When I was new again,

a novice,

I stumble,
girlishly chatty,
into myself.

It was impossible to argue
as I crumbled
into a heap
of exhaustion--

all that new light
still with uncertainty.

And yet, I quarreled stubbornly
as it is with the uninitiated,
with the mind
and all the oddities
of precarious squinting
at the rustic self.

I don't quarrel any more.

It is a practice to sit quiet
and notice dragonflies
circling the thoughts
of God

and the color
green that arrives
in early spring.

Pardon Prayer

On the night before you go under the knife,
I ask for pardon. I ask for grace
to erase the sins we've committed.

I ask for ease
into another way
of love

that is not about the body.

Forgive us for what we have done.
Forgive us for our longing.
Forgive us for our silence.
Forgive us for space.
Forgive us for all that we have left
undone.
Forgive us for our disease.
Forgive us for our fear
of the smallness of being alone.


Forgive us for what we cannot speak.

Forgive us for joy.

And,

in this space

of no words,

My God,forgive us.

Light Escapes Us

Is it too much to simply decompress
as these days of summer bleed
from my chilly skin,

a gentle lancing of the hot
raised places that will not heal?

Is it not enough to malinger
when it is indisputable
that the light escapes us
with each leaf that falls
and mildew begins to repossess
the cells of that new body?

It is grief that has taken my hand again
and asks me to walk slowly
on a lane near heart's abandoned home,
marveling with each step
at all these beautiful losses.

Calling

The phone crackles and groans with electrical impulses
as if to lecture to me about all the ways I have failed.

I extract a few words from this nocturnal swirl
and listen to my breath whisper comfort.

The sound of my voice is a lament

long clear tones of a bell

Each gong

a calling

to the love

of silence.

Drawbridge

Today, as it happens again,
I imagine pulling up the drawbridge

to hold out the world,

to hold the machinery of the days
where anger boils
and cravings for more
infest souls.

I want none of this deluge of pain
in my castle
where peace must be won
by bravely holding the line
against discontentment
and fear.

I have wrought the protection I need
and have only my heart as careful watchman
to keep the walls safe.

Constant and faithful caretaker,
be awake, be alert,

draw us close.

For My Son on His Nineteenth Birthday

Three days of labor
and the thimble of hope
was pleasant in the mind of a mother
who wanted to believe that brave counted.

Three days in labor and the fledgling in my belly
took the yoke of my hope and burned with each wave,
with illumination and brawn
we fought to bring you into the light,
determined to see each other
just as we were. . .
bloody and bold;
completely human.

Three days and the truth
was settled in the eyes of the hand maidens.

Midwives.

Three days and exhausted,
I panted in pain,
Jesus knew me
with each breath.

Jesus knew me.

Jesus knew.

Three days in my arms,
unreal and sweet breath of death's expiration,
Three days of putting you in the plastic nest
like a cowbird stealing someone else's space
in the warmth of the breast.
Three days waiting
for the path to open while your father said
"Put him down. It will only encourage him, warm him."

Three days of birth
and death
and the reminder
of a life resurrected.

And now, on the day of this son's death
I am middling fair. I am insignificant.
I am unneeded. I am undone.

Jesus knows I am almost lost
in the simple thoughts of three days
of life and death.

Jesus knows I am almost lost.

Jesus knows I am.
Jesus knows.

Jesus.