Sleeping Late

It isn't enough to pull the covers up near my chin
on a night where we leave the lights off
and turn down the heat.

Flannel so soft and almost feathers
on cool skin tucks me in
like some ghost of a father
or mother who kisses us on our forehead,

"Nighty, night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

I want to sleep late,
with out care
or wondering what time it is.

I want to sleep late
until my bones don't ache
and my eyes are surprised at the day.

I want to sleep late,
drink coffee in bed with my book,
shower after stretching, slip into socks,
not shoes, and then nap,

all afternoon.

Holding a Leaf in November

All these years of living,
secretly admiring
the passing of light,
and I am still breathless
to find a fallen leaf

full of copper or gold
and hold it to the brightness
of November sky
just to marvel

at the fall.

Today, Here I Am, Letting Go

Here I am
lingering like a vagabond
in the spaces between real time
and no time.

I decompress between afternoon intensity
of teaching the blind to see the sky
and the deaf to hear God's footsteps

and evening's chilly decline into the hours
that repossess the soul at sunset.

Between sleeping and waking
the breath lances the quiet
and smells like death and damp mildew.

Here I am
lingering with hope
that I might glimpse real love
in the face of a stranger.

I breathe, exhale,
and pray for the grace
to let go of beauty
at the end of every day.

Into Dreaming

The single glass of wine
has warmed my blood
and let me slip into the night
like something dark and shimmering
at the smooth edges of almost frozen water.

I am still here.

The waves of quiet
lap softly before sleep.

In the distance the trucks downshift on the Marlboro hill
and the train heads south toward New York City.
All that noise
is nothing now.

I am still here and can hear the clock
ticking in my head while I drift off
into dreaming.

I will dream of many geese drifting toward the Connecticut River
where we all float with leaves making their way
toward the ocean
and some other way
of knowing God.

As The Robin Decides Not to Fly

The bellow of November's uproar
has not yet settled on the landscape.

Instead we relax in the foggy golden light
without friction except the swish of leaves
under our feet.

The invitation to sing
and dance in this shuffle of crispness
chirps on as thrifty as a robin gathering
close to her friends who have decided not to depart
for this winter.

She will stay in the comfort of the snows
under the branches of cedar
and among the holly.

She will stay north
to see the light fade
like her red breast bleached
by the white and frozen skies
making it nearly impossible
to fly.

Swaddled in the Arms of the Lover

I have juggled
my way
past sunset

to another full moon rise
that swells
over the orange and pink horizon

like a machine
throwing the light
over the fence

with all the loot
bundled
like there was
a fortune

swaddled in the arms
of the Lover.

Already There

The night has chiseled a thrifty corner for sleeping
as the day crumbles away again.

Such drudgery blisters the mind
and can only minister to these wounds
by closing eyes and a mind where thoughts
are deserted like every body

left behind by the heart
not to be hobbled
by insignificant love.

Leave me,
a prisoner
who is afraid
to walk free

when she is already there.