Getting Ready to Turn 53

They stopped me all week,

asked me how I would celebrate another year.

I breathe into the idea of 53.



I always like my birthday, at the end of February,

not a leap year, and far enough away from Christmas

not to ruin that holiday, close enough to spring

to have something to look forward to as mud season

takes over.



As a child, the winter thaw cancelled skating parties,

even in Minnesota. There was no smooth gliding

over frozen surfaces of water.

Never the end of winter, but warm enough

to survive until the flowers arrived and the early green flowed

into the leaves. Birthday bowling or sleep overs with the girls.

Pink frosting on Angel Food. Candles and the story of my birth

before singing the song.



This year will be the most different I’ve ever been

with my father gone from his body and traveling free

with the crows and the dreams of all the ways

he has shown up for me. This year will be different

without the call from my champion before 8 a.m. to sing the song

and to tell me about soaking the cast off his arm

after driving on bumpy roads through the jungle

to hurry my arrival. The VW with the wicker basket

behind the seat for the baby. The trip to the nursery

looking for the white baby among the sea of brown

only to find me protected by the nurses.



This year will be different

with my heart space left

unprotected and open

to everything.

From the Ashes

In these days after death reminds me of who I am,
I touch the wounds I carry on my skin,
in my belly, all around my heart,
marveling at the raised edges
and the marks that do not diminish me
but, rather, bring me strength.
 
In the northern places
sacred ground is frozen,
waiting quietly for now,
for spring to open up
so that I might return
the remains of love
into the Earth’s aching chest.
 
If I am not awake in this waiting,
water might swallow me up
like so many stormy days
stuck behind this lifetime of sorrow.
 
But my eyes are not closed
as I gather the clever kindling I will need
while I hold the light of this flame to the tinder
and gently blow on the shavings of magnificent oak
that will become a radiant fire,
and then nothing
but remains
that look just like anyone else
and ashes.

Forgetting Myself

Before dawn I rest quiet hands on my hips,

look out at the field into the shimmering morning

and wait for the warmth of the light

like I do every day.



This body wakes to the radiant invitation,

like a lover waiting to take me

onto the dance floor

and play with the music;

forgetting myself in the movement.



The birds, delighted

slip from the sky

onto branches,

to the feeder,

and back to the sky

with all the magic

God has given them.



It is impossible not to open my voice

and sing along with the wind

that carries these feathered sisters

from their nests and their babies

long enough to nourish their souls

with flight and water.



Prayers have lifted from all our hearts

as simply as spreading the holy wings

of angels who teach us to fly.

The Night of the Ravens

The night the ravens came
the moon was blue


and the snow glowed under us;
the Earth and her crystals bright
were all magic.

The field of light across the way
swelled with the clicks and caws
of that flighty darkness,
rose and fell,
just like every stormy ocean will do.

Hundreds of feathery spirits had come
to announce the news
that love is stronger than any death
and that the messenger is always present
in the sound of wings.

Math Homework with my Son

for Julian

The perpetual questions of this son
spark and twist in the evening
as algebraic concepts curl exponentially
over our heads.

His voice is moving deeper into his chest,
closer to the earthy self to which he is called
to live and breathe and find his own
immortality.

I watch the edge of his lip
where the faint darkness of his new self
is a shadow of endless love
turning with the spirit
of all the generations.

Infinity is unfolding before my eyes,
in this moment, as we silently consider
the distance between our hearts
while erasing the answers
to the math homework
that will be due in the morning.

Wild

The field was empty white
with not a mark on the secluded ache
of this January day.

Even the wild turkeys making their marks
as they filed quietly
like old monks toward the brightest hill
looking for apples
under the snow.

The monotony of the wind and biting cold
wore us down today until all that was left
was the urge to sleep.

The fire crackles and huffs up the chimney
drawing the will for more heat
to rise.

All we can do is throw on another log
and pray in our humble shawls rocking a
nd look out at everything wild
past the fortress of this old house.

Every Day Ocean

The brine of this day's deep work
is fresh on my lips,
tingling and chapped
from the winds and cold
encountered in rough waters.

My mind billows with ideas
that always come as I chart the course
for a new year.
The certainty I'll see the stars
and know where to go next
is a blessing
if even for the moment.

Let the current of hope take me
into the wide open ocean
where love and kindness
are the leviathan we wait
to behold and follow
if we are steady
and strong enough.