Tonight I Will Not Scurry

Tonight I will not scurry toward the noose
where I often hover in desperate thoughts
of the toothless future
or the wafer consumed in sin.

Tonight I will climb the shaking ladder of love,
fertile and blossoming,
and weave a garland of jasmine
so that I might place it gently
around the neck of the present moment.

Tonight I will dream of leaving all that is undone
and invite the honey and the bee to rest
while we drift on the current of all time.

In this sleeping peace
there is never anywhere to go
and always nothing to do
but extend the hand in kindness
to the whole world.

Climate of the Soul

On this last day of January
where the warmth of a cautious winter
stoically frowns on the melting driveway

it is not lost on my logical self
how lucky I am.

After so many winters of shoveling myself out
of the darkness and cold,
I am freer than I have ever been
to take my cup of tea
and sit quietly doing nothing
while the world brashly ignores my peace.

After my kindness and conscientiousness of duty
to keep the paths clear, I am given this small break
in order to notice an afternoon of joy.

Let the climate of the soul change
and let fear flow away deep into the earth.

Between

On the cusp of God's love
you might think there is voodoo
or some maniac incubating in my throbbing chest,

but this love is reasoned and contains enough mindful joy
that we will honor all of this abundance
by holding it gently
like one holds the tiny fingers of an infant,
amazed at the miracle of the pale sliver
of each nail and the pink beauty
plucked from heaven's sentinel.

Gratitude lives in this space
between the insistent inhale
our eventual reluctant death.

Sit With Me

Sit with me in this pretense of winter sun
and nibble on a bit of scone, sip the debacle
of coffee squeamish with cream and raw sugar
I have managed to gather into a chipped cup.

Sit with me as I do what I can to harness my wisdom,
like catching the wind on a still day,
silent as this heart aching cold as granite,
pinched in the grip of the roots of dark pines
on some abandoned northern slope.

I have started to skitter at the thought of skin touching skin
and draw out of sight at intimate questions by passing the baton of conversation
to the mundane formation of clouds or the sighting of a rare chickadee.

Perhaps it is too late for me to find myself
inside all this cluttered and anxious thinking about tomorrow.
If you come to sit with me now you might only find the remains
of the chrysalis left behind while I dry my new wings
in the light of nothingness.

A Hand Full of Flowers

In the vivid light of this bleached moment,
I am so much more than ordinary.

I shuffle into the pine shadows
so as not to burn the delicate
curves of my shoulders and freckled nose.

I rest before the hill.
It is the only way to do it.

The velocity of my racing heart
toward all love, brandishing joy
like this bunch of daisies.

A sudden melody "give me your answer true"
pops into my head
and I am lost in my memory
on the blue bicycle
nearing the edge of a pothole.

You will pick me up from the tarred gravel
blood oozing, tears making obvious lines
down my dusty young face.

You are there to calm me, to bandage my wounds
and give thanks for the freedom of two wheels

and a hand full of flowers
for my mother.

Strangers On Some Back Road

We've all brushed up against the anesthetic drooping of winter
with a sudden beastly surprise of some fierce blizzard,
putting our hearts atilt,
saturated with hope for a robin-mild January;
forgiven for our venial offenses.

We all blink back the tears of another disappointed wounding,
plumb with the rusty truth it won't be the last lie.

You'll break that axle again
on some back road of a dream,
lost and forgetting the way.

Strangers are everywhere.
Strangers will rob you blind.
Strangers knock casually on the window
hoping you'll open the door
long enough to copy the keys
and smile as they walk away with everything.

TGIF

I have given up on the saccharin treasures of my optimism today.
There is no angelic voice calling me "Honey" at the drive-thru with my morning coffee,
no toothless grin of a child on the bus making me late,
nor the calming taste of left over licorice to heal me.

My mind is a rabble of noisy, angry thoughts
left over from a work-week full of unnecessary toil.

My colleagues and I depart the place
where we make sweaty wages,
defeated and lifeless,
as if we were the putrid remains of some poor animal
run over and left to rot on the side of the road.

I wipe the mucous from the pinched corner of my mouth
and spit the poison onto the ground.

On days like these, let the rain fall down in all her misery
and give me hope that tomorrow
can't get any worse.

The paper cuts will fade in no time.
The psychological games and irrational gems
will be there, festering,
when we get back on Monday.

For now, we give knowing looks to each other as we pass out the door saying,
"Thank God it is Friday."