We Will Not Be Lost

This morning my mind is as feral as the wind,
thwarted at finding stillness
when there is so much to be done.

My heart will depart at her own volition
and walk nearer to silence,
dismissing the forceful gales of distraction.

This grist of too many thoughts
in a pristine landscape of winter's invitation
to observe the starlit skies
and to wait is a gift.

Love the swirl of blinding ice
the gathers on the juniper branches
and weighs us down with love.

Even in the darkness and chaos of the storm,
we will not be lost.

Holding Their Breath for Words

As if sleeplessness grants some sort of warped prestige
I wobble out of meddlesome blankets, the scaffolding of warmth
when the thermostat plunges from daytime highs
into dreaming lows for slumber

and saving the planet.

In bare feet and my softest red robe
I dare to plough into the traffic of another day
with hot tea, bindled sweet with raw gratuity
and half cream

toward a poem that gathers angels
and senses the world with a heart
drunk with love punch
and hope for something better.

The clear sky and winter stars
call my mind out the kitchen window
where snow and still trees wait
holding their breath for words.

If Today is the Last Day

If today is the last day
to walk by the sea,
to feel the mist
form droplets in my curls
and drip onto my nose

then let this joy flow
as a prayer to the clouds
and to the wind's mother.

If today is the last day
to breathe this cool autumn air
and to feel the waves rush
over my green boots and tumble back
to the source of all water

then let my curious heart beat
like a drum crashing next to the heart
of a lover.

If today is the last day
to hear your voice and the meditation of all souls
at the edge of the earth and sky

then let me raise up my voice
dancing praise and singing
loudly with gulls and pipers
so that it echos
with all the angels I have ever known.

Infinity sounds more beautiful
with the choir humming this last day
of hallelujah.

Turkeys on Patrol

These ten fat turkeys
graze in the gray mist,
kicking up oak leaves,
eating ticks and worms.

Close to the old stone wall at the edge of the field,
they feel the safety of the land;
heavy as the hills.

These ten turkeys
shift and weave in a line
close as soldiers on patrol.
The snow and rain roll off their backs
oblivious to the coming storm
just over the next ridge
of a long winter.

Moving slow as monks
looking for wisdom,
these earthy warriors
click in garbled, low voices,

keep watch while they walk
together.

When the Bottom Fell Out

When the bottom fell out
from under everything,
jolting me from blistered hands
that had hung on to the cold steel rungs
too long,

I crumbled, ruminating on the failure,
befuddled by the opportunity to walk away.

When the bottom fell out
the walls of the well echoed,
bouncing with the sound of fear
and slippery with angry silent cups
of my own darkness and souring cream,

there was never anyone to blame
in this new place.

Now, when the frost is new on the grass
and the flowers wilt after the sun touches them,
it seems too simple to shrug off the end of the long summer
with a sigh and turn my back on the task of another death.

I am still exhausted in my old leather boots and cotton gloves.

but here again, when the bottom fell out,
wings suddenly grew out of a need to fly;

the new bird
pushed out of a nest
that was never meant to hold forever.

Before

Before the addiction,corrosion clicks in the mind.
The heart broadcasts a need to gather everything
like a wandering nun with only her clothes and a bowl
before God evacuates this desperate place of longing.

Before the shelling of thoughts begins,
let the mind rest in this moment.

The heroic Love will keep watch
with his hand on the breathing child within you
as light leaches into the blackness
where only the stars give consolation.

Shine there, in that very instance,
an exhalation,
an annulment of doubt.

Before you lift the thin edge of the glass to your lips,
smile at the warmth that will come home too soon.

Alone in the Last Days of Summer

These angelic days,
where I feel you near me,
ache with August.

Each sunflower
personifies years
of endless summer
and your breath constantly humming
at the base of my mind.

I am wandering again,
solitary as a stone,
in this new path of loving
all the nights.

The texture of another autumn
harangues the heat and is squandered
on copper and gold leaves
plummeting to the ground.

My body opens like a cloud of aspersions,
always the antagonist in my own poetry.

If only we could trace the corners of these thoughts
with enough time to heal everything we have ever wanted.
If only time wasn't so mighty.