Curtain

I see it.

The future
in a single window.

A wandering breeze
exactly in Italy
on a lazy August afternoon

and this curtain
allows imagination
to take flight.

You
don't even touch me
and I am
gone.

Fading

August, you escape me.
Your heat and light disappear
into the vegetable garden;
into the parched grasses of the field
and the promise of lush lawns.

How I resisted
capturing summer
in a jar like fire flies--
let it drift by my window
at midnight--

not holding on to anything

only the observer
of this fading--

this folding in
on myself.

These dirty feet
carelessly soiling
the clean, creamy sheets
of cool comfort,

exhausted
by so much
heat.

The Luck of Two Herons

The young rooster crows
early this morning
as summer begins to fade
with the exhalation toward fall
and all things dark.

He is finding his voice—
finally gathering the sound
of wisdom in his chest
and making that mighty sound
fly from his throat
while he still
has a chance.

Birds are like that.

Yesterday
two herons circled
the lake into which I dive—
gather the truth of myself
together in the waters
so that I might make it
through another winter—
gather the light in my skin
and in the blood that will be
made in my bones.

The luck of two herons
circling above my head
and reflected on the surface
of this mighty pond
is almost enough.
I might live forever
with this much joy. . .
with this much good fortune.

I grab a breath,
pull myself under,
glide smoothly
for a long and delighted
blessing of water--

an enlightened flight.

Chronic Joy

Who wouldn’t want that kind of joy?
The chronic joy
that sits in our belly
before making love
after a long separation
from the body--
that joy that makes us shiver involuntarily
as we brush our leg waiting
at the pause of a stop light—
smile at the stranger
who is us
in a mirror.
The stranger we have
passed a million times
not noticing the confidence
in so much beauty.

I am willing to bet
I don’t have to show you anything
to have you understand
that noticing what is missing in my language
gives meaning to what is overflowing
in my mind.

Don’t look away at sorrow ever again—
that friend of sadness and suffering
you’ve ministered to
for so long.
Look me in the eye
and find that familiar ache
that sits uneasy
between us.

You crave that chronic joy
as much as I do.
That low hum,
the dull ache
of time knocking
at the window,
that shows us how
to love ourselves
with each breath
before we kiss our beloved.

All the angels
and the saints hovering
in our constant prayer
know we can’t hold on
to this much love for more
than a moment at a time.
The gift of your laughter
or in a story about a memory of peace
lets us sleep as we are protected
from the enemy the heart knows best.

Take me into your bed
howling at the pain of blood
flowing freely-
the damage informing
the exchange.
Say good night to all the fear
of losing
something that was never
yours at all.
It is only mine to give.

Adore the poem
waiting to be born
every day--
each time the tide of love
comes in and washes you clean
back into the churning waters,
polishes the cutting edges
you are so afraid of,
yet run your fingers over carelessly
waiting for the skin to break open.

Take the stones you carry
in your pack for ballast
and hand them to me
one at a time.

You cannot forge your own life.

In all your weeping
you have forgotten
that I already know you.
You share my blood by the transfusion
of pain we know—by this disease of the heart
infected by the healing surprise
of another day.

July

Cornflower blue
suddenly appears on roadsides
everywhere
as the miracle it is.
Equally bright in the sun
or the mottled drops of rain,
the smooth surface
of absolute color
strikes the otherwise green.

My hands so often on the wheel
I smile at the ways I have arrived
with purpose,
confidence into another summer.

Just for today
I will not worry
about winter.
I will laugh at the way
the world romances me
with flowers
that grow wild
at the edge of the path.

Orange lilies and Queen Anne’s lace
dance. Pinks and daisies can’t help
themselves. Black-eyed Susan
incorrigible in their short, golden glory
near the purple heads of milkweed that sing
before weaving themselves
into the cocoons that will sleep
until the silky wings of fall
unfold into the looming darkness.

But come, July,
and the suddenness
of this glorious waking

in all this beauty
of unstoppable,
breath taking
light.

The Never Ending Sequence

There is no shame
as I walk alone,
mile after mile
of nothing in my head,
while reading old,
and often tattered maps,
to places I’ve already been.

I adore looking at the lines,
reading them slowly
like a beloved poem
reminding me of the pull of the sea,
to trace the roads
with my fingers
knowing
eventually
I will come out
at the places
I am supposed to be.

All I can do;
all anyone can ever do,
is to walk with toes pointed
forward and believe
in the sky
and the Earth
uniting at the horizon
to give us a point of hope,
something good and clean to focus on
in the never ending sequence
of forgiving days.

Easy Dawn

At this easy hour of dawn
the air touches my face lightly
tracing the edges of my smile
and the crow's feet
around my waking eyes.

The ocean is open
and the clouds above
take nothing away from the birdsong
and the clatter of the simple waves
lapping at the sand.

I fold and unfold myself here--
a washer woman
scrubbing the stains
out of my skins,
snapping the fabric I have woven
and hang myself out to dry
in the sun and breezes
filled with the force of life.

Clean again and again
with each wave of water--
each moment of laughter
at my lack of faith.

I am new
in the slow movement
of this long night
into the coming day.