First Snow

It begins again;
the white of snow on the open field
after the flock of turkeys dance
together in their loving way,
then depart into the arms of the forest.

The white begins
like a simmer of an idea,
hope and dread,
in the eye of the beholder.

We spot the first flakes,
almost an oasis in this deserted time of waiting.
The darkness threatens to devour all light
in the rationing of fewer and fewer days.

Those of us who have traveled
to the edges of never know
the hope of each glassy miracle,
falling, millions of bodies transformed water
witnessing the sky
as a child born
laughing at another chance
to live in the images
of God.

Water's Twin

Who will I call to when this super moon
has opened fully to the sky
and I am crazy for the sea?

I imagine again
that I am a lone she-wolf
who wants to howl,
but dares not.
There is so much to lose
when you have nothing to give.

Instead,
I curl into myself
in the warmth of some stranger’s cave
and wait for the silence of the night
to protect the savage longing
I have been given
for something Holy.

What should I expect?
The truth is,
I am the twin of the waters,
born in the late winter
of another woman’s life.
I must soak in the heat
of that enormous love
before I can give myself
to anyone.

Hold me
on the edge
of the wide horizon
so that we might welcome the sun
at the quiet of the civil twilight

between the shore
and the raging ocean
of every sacred partnership
we will ever know.

Here we can only flow
from the voice of God.

A Poem for Us

If we were neighbors,
I would walk over this morning
and ask you to read this aloud to me.

I would likely bring my steaming cup,
milky and sweet,
to keep my hands warm against the frost
and to keep my focus
on the words of the poet,
my teacher, open.

What gratitude I have for you, Dear Friend.
You love the mysterious way our dreams are woven,
something out of almost nothing,
ideas bumping into everything.

Between us and the imagined twilight,
suddenly the world is all poem.

Thanksgiving Eve

On the night before Thanksgiving
my heart flies open
so grateful for the moonlit ways
love is all around me,
in me.

On the night before Thanksgiving
I turn up Purple Rain
and dance in my kitchen
while I blend pumpkin
with ginger, fresh eggs,
and milk from a can.

How did I learn to make crust
flakes with unsalted butter and unbleached white flour
when I wipe my hands on my apron
like all my aunts and my mother
who only used the luxury of Crisco?

The turkey is in the brine
for the meat eaters. The beans
and Brussels sprouts will be roasted with extra virgin
before the potatoes are mashed and whipped
and we always admire the view of the table
lit with candles.

On this night before Thanksgiving
my sons have scattered with all the ways time
disappears. My daughter will arrive under the cover of dark
with her sweet lover. I am lost in the undertow of grief
and can't catch my breath. Perhaps the bread will save me.

And, as if it isn't enough,
this may be the last eve for my father
as he catches all the breath
that has been given to him. Thanks be.
Thanks be given.

What a feast we will have.
What a feast.
What?

Hold my hand tonight.
It is the only prayer I can remember.

Expand Love

Gracious mother of all hearts
I have come to this chamber
seeing aromatic peace,
incense that wraps her love
in quietude. Words will not change
the vicious scraping of the strings
with a dry bow.

The orchestra is without a chaplain again
and I am carving the insides of my memory
like I am some sort of chaplain
sitting with the bruises and the bites
of truth and wonder if you will wash me away
with a new song.

My Holy Mother
who witnesses the learning
that comes from death.

We are forgiven.
We expand love
with every moment.

The Fifth

On most days

I was content to be silent,

the observer,

as if it might be possible

to play the keeper of time,

capturing small particles of delicate exchanges

in a glass jar filled with the light of mothy memory.



At the edge of the open flame of the last days of caring,

the color of your lips came together,

your remarks clipped,

about needing something soft from me again,



the words I never noticed are unhinged,

fish bones in my throat

until they tumble

and crash into dozens of shards,

needles of glass exploding on impact.



My hand rocketed to cover

the damage done

and I could not take back all the ways

each syllable stood naked with meaning

like sour milk dreaming.

curdled abruptly

between us.

There was no way to ignore lump of truth

that could have been love

had I kept my mind in the darkness

waiting for the moment of recognition

to pass.

Hunger

It creeps up on me
this emptied lack of life,
nourishment of the morning and midday
gone.

It wasn't much to start with
and now my belly is empty,
alone and groaning through a long night
like a tired old dog waiting
for anyone to come home.

My pockets are empty.
My head has forgotten
the last time I whistled.
My heart hits these ribs
like a prisoner clanging
the last tin cup
that was ever
made.