Threads

Some of these threads that bind us are blue
and measure all the ways we hold tight,
brandishing love and cutting loose the abrupt departures
we are forced to share.

Some of these threads that bind us are silver
like dawn, quavering with the force of the ocean tides,
dancing and full of laughter from the belly
when we forget who we are.

Some of these threads that bind us are violet
and justify our rage in words and healing touch,
sheltering us from the ways the world boils over
when love is forgotten.

Some of these threads that bind us are green
and our favorite color of leaves of grass
onto which we stretch out our bodies to celebrate
before we sleep forever.

Some of these threads are blessings of red and yellow
like the sky just before it falls into blackness,
drifting off like stars and meteors,
when we become worn and dusty
with the musty fibers of God.

Consider the Moon

On a clear night like this
how could you not notice the moon,

steadfast and suspended;
our satellite in the darkness?

If you look closely,
even mindfully,
you might not be blindsided
by her silver sobriety.

Instead of constant confusion
and almost lunacy,
you might find yourself directed,

the wise inner detective
supple and ingeniously curious,

mastering how to classify stars, tombstones,
and other heavy metals

that float into your conscious thought
with no meaning greater
than a train schedule in Paris
or the forecast on the local Vermont radio.

Walking On Water

Under it all,
even with the depths at a distance--
where the ice was clear beneath us
and the augur was sharp and strong,

under it all
we learned to cull the weakness,
swap fear under the bridge
where we were threatened

for a chaste and uncorrupted thought
instead of waiting painfully
for the mind to shuffle
and pace with anxiety of falling
in to the cold below.

Under all the cracking
and frozen anticipation of another lonely day,
we breached the secure understanding of God in the world
and christen ourselves merely human.

Each unsteady step on the wobbling landscape
that glistened like a story of joy,

we forgot again
that walking on water
was never easy.

Always Stay Rooted Somewhere

How do they do it?

The people who live a lifetime
in one place. . .how do they not go crazy
only smelling the soil of one field,

the sounds of the voices of neighbors who have known them
since they were babies, or before.

I have traveled around the world,
happily tasting the food and loving the feel of the air
in France and other exotic wines.

How do they do it?

So loyal to their land,
they carry fuzzy plants from home
in the soil of the place they were born.

My roots are so fragile
from all the ways earth moves.
From the Philippines
to towns that don't sound like they look.

So many things don't look like they sound,
sweet until you try and grow.
Strong until you try and move them.

Always looking to be rooted
in some other field.

Sweetly Sung

The jagged curve
of memory is an invitation
to contract around all that has been.

Like stitches tucked neatly into a wound,
healing efficiently clarifying the edges of pain
where crisis was forcefully certain of the body.

We tick away like an exact clock
and forget that a metronome
is only a tool
to measure time.

The joy with which we answer the call
to play or to weep
is all a choice.


I will decorate my front door
with colorful boughs and ribbon
and the stars will fall like laughter
at a celebration we can all be glad to be part of.

Like candles, or flowers,
or a song sweetly sung.

Last Night's Wine

My joy is supple most mornings,
determined and purified by sleep.

Is is almost soul osmosis
that filters the sweetness of quiet dozing
with mindless breath and transforms worries
into variegated nothingness.

If I had an audience,
and propriety prevailed,
I might dance,
even flaunt,

the love that lives in me.

Right there.
Stepping lightly
on the sticky kitchen floor
where last night's wine

evaporated.

It Might Be Enough

It might be an understatement
to say that I can get discouraged,

down-hearted,

even disappointed,
in the fermented ways
we speak,

talking as if we might avenge our pride,

decorating our ego with jewels and gold leaf,
no more real than the truth
disguised in the fleece of a sheep
over the frame of a creature
with fangs and panting, heated breath.

It might be enough
to be a shepherd
on nights like this,

cold and wet soaking my skin,
mindless animals obeying with simple songs;
gently nudged toward new grass,

while all the while
Leonid flashes above me,
flying angels,
closer to earth,

calling to me in God's voice,
"Don't you dare give up."