The Force of Love

Your story about the hip of the woman
stretched out, sleeping next to you
is hiding in the corner of my mind this morning.
I call to her from this rocking chair
wondering where she’s gone to
in her too quiet play.
You said you put your mind
to that fleshy place—
a healing mind that brought warmth
and the tingle of life to those curves
you attach yourself to.
No wonder you prefer that place
with the strong arms that enclose you in embrace.
I have nothing to offer you
from the drafty attic of the ghost I am becoming.

The force of love isn’t what we all think it is—
hearts with the richness of the darkest chocolate
rolling on our tongues, fragrant fruit or the swoon
of red wine, a hand
brushing a wisp of hair
from the flushed cheek, replaced
instead by long kisses
leading to the bed of shared grace.
No, that is not what you would find in this sanctuary,
empty of any warm prophecy,
only the flight of the soul exiting the vessel
again and again, night after night alone.

You comfort me,
patting my shoulder with your words,
kind with the reminders you are witness to this leaving.
Sometimes I think you might like to join me,
book passage on the same steamer
across the great waters of time.

But then there are those hips
and the gatherings around the fires
that draw you back
to the recognition of the healing of laughter
and the promises of more
made to your children.

I close my eyes to that longing, the tightening
fist around the thing not offered to me,
and begin to sing another song.
This song sends what is left of my generosity
to encircle your head with the crown
to my small, yet royal, domain.
Here I can offer you
the remains of the riches
I have gathered
and must now leave behind.

This kind of love
is the only inheritance you or I
will ever require for that safe passage
past the gates of forever.
The apple orchards blooming
with delight as we enter.

There are only three things
that are important in a life.
The first is to be kind.
The second is to be kind.
The third is to be kind.
–Henry James

Everything Has Changed

I can’t remember when the things of my old self started to fall apart
to where they are now—where everything has changed.

This is not to say
that my life, from the outside, is much different.
My children are happy
and growing up
as children will do
if we are lucky—like I seems to be today.
I haven’t decided to leave my current husband—
though I often plan my escape route
for when he will have me no longer.
I wake up to tea with cream, drizzled with maple syrup
each morning grateful for my tall cup of goodness
as I watch the seasons change around the white pines
of my windows in the woods.

But everything has changed.
Every cell in my body has been replaced by a knowing,
brick by stony brick,
toward a stairway to a home
I’ve never seen.
Each exhalation
I am shedding my old skin
from the inside of my snake self out,
layer after layer gone
until I crawl, naked
of any knowing.

There is nothing to say of this loss.
I am a neutralized solution, condensing again
toward a droplet of pure truth
on the tongue of God—
a waiting tear of joy and forgetfulness.
Until I am ready to fall
into that great nothingness,
I must remember to be kind.

I must walk gently
in the midst of mere mortals
without disturbing the myth
of the importance of the mind.

As my feet touch the wooden floor
of daylight, I am reminded
to be grateful for the lack of pain I might find
in the world, my ripple on the surface of the pond
of compassion
bringing comfort to everyone,
on even the most distant shores.

And, when the time finally comes to depart
and my shining key of kindness locks the door
behind me one last time, I will gladly place that glowing hope
in the hands of my loving family of friends,
my palms and pockets free
to scatter the seeds of goodness
along the path of searching,
feeding the birds
and small creatures
that will heal all of tomorrow—
making my way without words
clear as a dark December sky.

Unbreakable

In this new body
I descend the familiar stairway
into hell again,
past the snake of temptation,
sharing the secret password
only snakes can know--
Eve’s lesson still fresh
in my mind.

In this new body
I gladly walk the plank,
swan diving,
back flipping,
into the depths of redemption
pulling hard at this thick water
toward the pearl
hidden from my view,
my lungs filled
with the heat of holding
until my face can break surface,
gasping for just one more
bite of sweetness.

In this new body
I am learning to strip myself
naked of fear,
bind my feet first.
then hands together,
with faith in knowing
the oncoming locomotive of future.
In this speeding light
and trembling place
I lay my willing nature
down on these tracks
waiting under calm
for this accident
to release me.

The planets know this body of light
like a sister. They have orbited
my soul for a million millennia,
watching this cycle,
this rebirth like late night reruns,
sleepy in the artificial light
of illusion, faces glowing blue
through the windows of the universe.
They are tired and waiting for real rest to come
or for the surprise of something new
to watch.

In this new body
smoking fresh from the fire of creation,
crawling, clawing, with my nails dirty,
embedded with the earth,
I gather the remains of wise old blood,
compassionate flame,
struck new again
to light the way
of a new set of footprints.

And what of my love for you, sweetness?
What I would give to exchange
just one true kiss.
From this place of passion
I would turn us to stone,
frozen in time,
longing finally captured,
contained in the unmoving
marble of these two
unbreakable hearts.

Transitioning to Grace

I wish I could tell you
or even myself
what happened
watching the moon rise
full over Mascoma Lake last week
my heart in lodged in my throat
my mind completely silent
but for the attention
to the mechanical buzz of light
that has taken up residence
in the connective fibers of my body.

In that almost November wind
the urgency to touch anything warm
to the palms of my hands
and the deep ache in my side
were finally quiet.
The air, full of the crisp coolness of fall,
went undetected by nostrils or nerves that might
register cold, even the light of the bright moon
became filtered, less brilliant
by the changing landscape of my heart.

I am numb in this place of cross currents and unsure
of what comes next.
I feel the soul’s trapped wisdom
in this newborn body,
where the exposure to the elements
rips my unwilling flesh raw.

I wish I could sing, chant,
celebrate this non-attachment,
but instead I moan with grief.

If only I could remember why I started
toward this big water,
perhaps then I might understand
why I am left alone again,
unable to make my way home.

Letting The Fire Take Us

How does one chronicle a life?

In letters. In photos.
In the people and places we’ve loved?

If a fire overtakes the house of one’s soul
what do we grab as we escape the flames
before the intense heat
turns our lungs into useless bellows
for the life force of the long days
and nights of breath?

Images of faces—
our baby selves
and our children’s bright new eyes
unable tofocus in all the light—

Our mother’s longing smile
at forty next to the lines that will follow you
into the next twenty years
if you are that lucky.

The embrace of a life folded
into the pages of albums and boxes
that pale in comparison to the memory
or to the life itself.

If Buddha took my hand,
lead me out of the flames,
sat me down next to his tree of abundance,
he would tell me to leave it all behind—
illusion and all,
notice the fleeting sense of permanence,
he might tell me not to burden myself
or my children with anything but the joy
and suffering right in front of us today.
The knapsack of this life is already heavy
and it is time to release myself
and continue on the journey
lighter than any heart has traveled.

I could give it all to the fire today,
every single item and misplaced trust,
even leave the ashes of my children
with no guilt or sorrow
for the promise of the path
beyond the farthest star.

I would easily fly away there,
never, ever come back
to these tired and charred remains
with a grateful smile
on my true face.

From that distant place
I might finally find peace.

Driving Toward Home

Today, somewhere near Charlestown,
or maybe it was Claremont,
I drove down Lover’s Lane
going exactly the speed limit
for the first time
in a long time.
I wasn’t in a hurry
to get anywhere.

On the seat beside me
was the dream of a box
shared with a heart
as sweet as the universe can be,
like the copper of November oaks
left to fend for themselves--
nothing but the grey sky
and the smell of snow
to keep warm.
Geese sing sleep as they pass
on their long flight to the river
just ahead of winter.

Meanwhile, the box remembers
the hands of her maker,
trembling with joy at the thought of that love,
that gentle touch.
It woke her before
from a sleep so sound
perhaps she had never been
this alive.

I was witness to another kind of love today,
just as pure as hers.
In that light I was smoothed
like stones,
removed of all my rough edges,
rolled by water and wind
of a storm no one expected.

Now I yield to my partner,
the universe. His will places his hands
carefully, solidly balanced in my core
where I could never go alone.

Talk Love To Me

Talk love to me.
Wrap your words around my waist
and pull me in
close to your belly
soft with breath,
guiding yourself into me
to the wet acceptance
of this spirit we share.

Your love came to me today
in the form of a tree--
a shower of sun yellow leaves
on Washington Street.
A wind blew your name
on my neck.

Lover, you can have me anywhere.
No body is necessary
when the spirit emerges
fireworks more brilliant
than all the individual joy
collected in one thousand lifetimes.

The thought of holding you
is so real
the ghost of you
becomes flesh again.

I take your words in my hands,
trace the shadows of your chest
with my mouth,
and guide you deep
into the core
of my flowering lotus.

Unexpected thunder rolls through my body
like a fire and I am released from my suffering
before it even begins.