November Morning

The morning is copper
according to this oak
and the sun that casts her line
into the waters of another autumn mist.

I am still on this shore
waiting for something to happen,
like happiness or mindful laughter.

Who wouldn't be breathless
with the anticipation
of another moment
like this frosty
polished joy?

Making Sabbath While the Game is On

On this ordinary Sunday
I escape into the kitchen
while the game is on
to put together chicken pot pie.

My sons, these men in the making,
will be hungry in a few hours

the way they always are
after a weekend of sleeping
and silence the other days of the week
won't allow.

My compassionate companion, the radio
plays while I cut potatoes, carrots,
celery, leeks, broccoli,
and add corn and peas--
exactly bite-sized morsels.

It is easy to find comfort
in all that has come from the garden.

I will tuck each offering
under a buttery crust
and allow abundant steam
and cream,
warm and true
as hands on aproned hips--

Mama calling the beloved
to the glowing supper table.

We will bow our heads,
thankful for the touch
of grace and the ringing of cups,
clinking a joyful toast
to this sabbath meal.

On the Last Day of Summer at a Beach in Maine

The wind reminds me
that this is the end,

cool and bright
yet warm, almost spring
in the texture of the escaping heat.

I walk
like I have
so many times,
shuffling
this time in my tall,
green mud boots
and not bare toed,

blazing a trail
toward the quiet that comes
as I pace the sand
along the edges of the water
searching for shells and stones
to hold me--

to keep me from flying away.

I am the last pink and wild rose.
I am the cluster of birds ready to head south.
I am a visitor who longs to stay
where the sea embraces the sky.

Novena

I have prayed
for nine straight days
and even longer
on the way down
the steepest paths
paved with glass

My skin did all it could
and worked a shard
from the sole of my foot--
a diamond glittering
from the flesh
ready for harvest.

Fear not.

Pray for indifference
when the cruel sliver slips out

a drop of blood, red and sticky,
cleaning the wound that has opened
with each step toward freedom.

It is an exhausting relief
to breathe into this birth
knowing the pain
wasn't all in your imagination.

Repeat after me.

At My Expense

Grind the substance of your daily life
like grains of wheat between two rocks
and imagine what truths have been lost
like the chaff to the wind of too much
effort at finding the comfort
of a sweet companion.

This knowing is
like grinding teeth together
in a dream,
the slow exhale
into another pitiful death.

Know the sweating that soaks sheets
at two in the morning
that wakes you in heat
and freezes you as you turn your back
to the darkness
alone.

Know the darkness grinding the grains
of a fresh, youthful appearance
into dust--

into the lies and the false front
of a smile that charms your way
past the door of death
with the coins minted
at my expense.

Waking the Sleepers

Attune yourself
to the allure of morning
like you have slept soundly,
aroused by nothing in the night
that feels like pain
or pleasure at the brim
of falling into the abyss again

And again, just to broach the subject
of desire
stuck in your mind,
the breach birth that cannot be free
to rush out into the light of day,

the lamb bleating and popping up
into the fresh air,
lucid enough to notice
God sitting and waiting
to awaken the sleeping children.

The Revolution

I have taken to my bed
to write the revolution
of tender words
that will move the heart
and ensnare the mind
of a lover.

Imagine no escape
once the eyes follow the path,
following the crumbs of truth
and letters scattered,
forming these new worlds
into which one can fall
helplessly
into joy.

The poetry
of the solution
is tangled up in the breathless
arms and legs of an embrace--
heart racing
toward the open skies
of surrender.