Exhale

Exhale and watch as this crown melts,
dripping down to the dusty place of wisdom
like tears of gratitude
for all that has been given.

The moon is the mother
who always smiles,
blesses us so gently with her cool hand
on the most fevered brow.

Anger and betrayal
have no place where this knowing
nods and forgives
gathering us into the arms
of all time.

We all eventually learn to glow in the night,
stars landing in the middle
of the universe we have become.

When I learn to let go
I see everything.
Everything.
Every
thing.

Calling

When I am still as I am in this moment
I can hear the urgent grasping of the copper leaves
when the heat of summer holds tightly to a small clammy hand
and the eventual crystals of winter have not yet gathered at the feet of all the oaks.
The crisp bodies rattle together, so familiar with the dimming light.

When the rains of some tropical place tumble in
as an unexpected guest,
interrupting the frost with floods,
breaking the connections of our voices
like birds lost in migration,
I dream of my father and his fragile bones
fighting to stay above ground.

He calls me in the morning to ask me about the skies
and my sons until he can’t hear me and hands the phone back
to my mother. I panic like I did
before 8 a.m. thirty years ago when the rates were lowest
and he called just to see if I was in my room next to the ringer.

His voice so certain I would answer.

It is the same way he soaked the cast off his arm
the day I was born
so he could hold me softly without tears,
without needing to keep anything from me.

His word was that good.

With each syllable of an idea
he whispers little handfuls of life’s stories,
clings with all his strength to the swaying shadows
before he drops away from the tree
calling out with the last breath
toward all the heaven he could ever imagine.

To Angry Prayers

This cascade of fragmented fear
wanders into the building
with another weapon I didn't expect
and, as you might imagine,
this bloody scene
winnows away all
my peace of mind.

I cannot meander quietly
festooned with an absent smile
while the thundering skies break
into gunshots and sirens.

I have traipsed on a prayer
that was once a supple friend
in hands holding beads
in a sacred space
and instead have thrown them all
into the crevasse of pain
and slippery suffering.

I will cut my hair
with the thresher's blade,
my tresses dropping
to the cold floor
in the harvest
of so much grief
and disbelief.

Telling Time

Let me blunder through another day
mourning the tinny honey of my words.

"I'm fine. I really am fine."

God, or something of that spirit, sits with me and pats my hand
when I say what I have learned.

Fine sadness, is delicate porcelain between my fingers,
steaming with hot tea and not enough to say.

"He would have been 21 today."

The warbler has taken the attention of the funeral director
as he tells me the story of his son.
I am patient in the loutish silence we share.
It is not a lofty place where we shine without fault.

We wallow in the opulent ashes
and the smell of the last breath,
all witnesses of something we'd forgotten.


This is part of the deal we make
to be in human time.

Twenty One

At dusk in the garden
I listened for you
and your gentle cry
chirping with the wax wings,

in the whispers of a warrior hummingbird
coming close to the bee balm
as if to call my bluff

as if I had a vision
twenty one years after
the vapor of this short life.

The ghost of you is here
in the flowers and in two candles,

for birth
for death.

The darkness is lit
by northern lights
and a sliver,
the silver moon.

Nearing Sleep

Just before midnight
pass me the password in a kiss
knowing that oxygen helps us to banter
over the din of anger and hurt.

Deliver the digits
in a whisper
between your teeth,
like a savior
waiting for God
grovelling like a fish
out of water.

My obscene laughter
is naked and forms blasphemy
in my throat.

Just before midnight
the moths make their way through
the July crack in the screens.

Send them all back to the fire.
The flame is where we all deserve to burn.

Ordinary Time

This pristine day
blunders along
unaware of the brilliant luster
more ordinary than most.

In this time where melancholy is my neighbor
I cannot ask to borrow any sweetness
for there is no paying back
this set of honest hours.

I am stupified by how crowded love can be in summer
and how fast the sun moves across the skies
and the darkness of the other side of the moons.

Put your hand gently
at the curve of my low back
if you dare
and take my hand
so that you might guide me
into the steps
of another dance
where we are
belly to belly
looking into the eyes we know
reflect the unconditional truth.

My mind is askew in these unfamiliar moves,
but my heart knows the way
like the cows
to the smell of golden fresh straw
and the quiet of the barn
at deep dusk of fireflies
in July.