This Time

Feel the heart of me
at your feet
washing the dust away,
washing the wounds that reopened
unexpectedly;
such violence
is unforgivable.

The loneliness of pain
after silence is a crime,
the price of another unspoken war.

This time, let the poet speak.

This time, stand in the center of the village
with your fists raised and let anger glow
like an ember that will burn the fields
clear of the wonder and abundance.

This time,
let the truth of sacred words
gather their force
with an all consuming heat
hungry for more.

And when you return from the scorched battlefield,
I will gather you into my arms, weeping
for all you have seen.

The mind cannot be healed.

The heart is a patient lover
tenderly soothing the broken Beloved.

Planting After Good Friday

Sweet peas
planted after good
Friday sprout near the slide
and swings.

I cultivate sunflowers
and the pumpkins
from last year
will blossom
nourished
by children laughing
in the green grass.

I harrow the earth
and fertilize with manure
and a winter's worth of composted
kitchen scraps.

We will all be fed
by the richest colors
when the sun rises early
and we are released
from worry about anything
but growth.

Hungry

The velocity of love,
lasso and tall boots included,
swishes above our heads,

gallops into the gracious sunset
boldly undisturbed by gravity
and shallow furrows in the earth
from which we all crawled.

Dust boils and heat waves shimmer in the distance.
In this arid and forlorn place we are endlessly trawling
for opulent words that cultivate the perfect moment
for romance, a lonesome trail song,
or some other mystery to be sung around the campfire
under the brilliant stars
and marveling at a round and radiant moon.

I am just another thorn under the saddle of losses,
afraid to look before the long day's ride is over.

It is fear that tracks me on this tired journey,
hungry and waiting for the predator
to see the weakness limping
near the edge of abundant joy.

Be Still

The lopsided spring
drizzles along in her gray uniform
and squeaking rubber boots.

The opulent daffodils are billowing
in the coolness under dripping skies.

Just when we are all ready to surrender to sadness,
put our hands up and huddle in the corner of our grief,

the clouds step aside
and the purple flowering trees
release us on the sweet scent

of a forgotten trail
where love never wanted to hide.

Be still on the edge of this field
and God will arrive
without an invitation.

The Relief I Feel

These first breaths of purity of thought hold me before the day
with only the sounds of bird song
and the tapping of rain on a single layer
of cedar shingles.

These inhalations, still calm before the ritual of coffee
and malfeasance of the mind's controlling power,
are not polluted with high brambles, sharp blades of grasses,
or pointed tips of thistled wanting.

How will I explain to my sons
this dedication to darkest revenge
and the vendetta against the patriarchs suddenly abandoned--
all the other golden images we once worshipped, simply gone?

Now that the statues have been melted in truth's kiln
with common metals for their strength,
the beautiful opulence is gone.

The relief I feel is overwhelming.

I am completely peaceful in this garden where nothing grows

except the single lotus from the clouded and muddy pool
slowly collecting the warm tears of gratitude

of letting go.

Words Like Flowing Wine

In a perfect world
the pendulum of the grapevine
would stop swinging
and find a still point
in the center of fear and love.

The rumors that trickle into the chasm of truth
are few and far between where love has sidled up
to the heart and ignores the temptation to glamorize

fear and the ignorant path
that burrows below the surface of the skin
and turns the leaves into dry and curling words
that only harm us with the scorching dishonesty
that cannot be washed clean.

Stand tall and find your center of gravity
and the words will flow smoothly from the tongue
like water on the petals overflowing kindness.

Snow Storm in April

In tribute to a mild winter
we allow joy to follow our amazement
as a miniature snow storm hits Vermont
this early April.

The winds walloped us last night
as we sunk into the pillows,
anticipated the worst,
and dutifully bought bread and milk,
gassed up the cars,
and waited for the renegade precipitation
to forget her manners
and enter the party uninvited.

No one paid for this lopsided exchange
where spring and summer edged us closer to hope
only to be taken in by cancellations
clumsy with ungainly excuses
to the flowers that dared to collect the sun and color
like the blush on a girl's face after her first dance.

The night is hushed now and we forgive everything
knowing it is all a temporary, youthful hoax-
a whistle at the door
reminding us to all come home early.