The Traitor

In the watchtower of my mind
I watch myself escape over the barbed wire
of the breath and tunnel under the hedgerow
of disappointment.

My handiwork is noteworthy.
Hands full of abrasions from the digging
and the mind shaved close to the bone
to look like the prisoner I am.

If I could charter a seaward ship
bound for nowhere
I would.

I am a traitor
of my own practice.
I am a silent thief
waiting to be released
on my best behavior.

With the Moon Waxing Full

There is a locket of hope
that I hang over my heart
with a silver chain, shiny
and almost strong enough.

Each day we are all placing emotional postage
on the letters written to recruit the heart
to let love flow from the simple gesture
of gratitude.

I am not the Lone Ranger
riding with my trusty companion
into the sunset.

I am alone on this vast prairie with my laughter
and all the jovial torches that burn brightly
to light the way under the stars

and with the moon waxing full,
we might just remember
how solitude is no stranger
to the dark reminder
we were all left behind.

Welcome Sweet Sleep

Before I drift
into the perplexing night
for refuge and mercy,

let me dedicate these thoughts
to the delivery of the soul
from all that we grapple to understand
with the mind.

Let the sleep that will soon overtake me
be filled with the treasure of the true self;
those tiny gems of living fully.

The heart is, by all accounts,
the beloved neighbor
who loves us
for exactly who we are
and who needs no license
to take away the boundaries
where love has been caught

in the wires of fear
and someone else's distant picture
of peace that doesn't include
a lullabye.

A Million Atoms Away

Some days
joy is simple.

Children are laughing.
Meals are beautiful.
We say just the right things.

I imagine that today
life is a complex tangle
of joy, beauty, and kindness.

I bow to my twin
and the light that lives there.

Today I bow and know that scary links
of light and subtle energy
is the simple joy
we can't help
but exchange

from a million atoms
away.

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.