Without Words

Without words
this silence cleanses me,
strips me to my nakedness
in the cool, new summer rain.
The wind is still
with only the song of birds
and the low-throated gulping
of the frogs to drift with.

Without words
and the sound
of your voice to comfort me
I must go within.
I seek relief
in my own skin
and the touch
of my warm and eager fingers
to find the truth—
answers to the questions
of my birth.

Without words
the birds sing for me
and carry music
to your window
with no effort.

These winged messengers
simply open their mouths
and the words of the loving universe
gather the language
we have carefully crafted
and return to trace the letters
of an alphabet
our souls know
by heart
with their feathered faces
looking joyfully toward the sky.

Return Address

Just write.
Just put the sharp point
of your pen to the almost empty page
and let the words make their way
past the milky screen of your mind
flow like the trickle of life
over the dam
full to overflowing
with the unimaginable power
to inform the heart,
to change the shape
of the landscape
like a flood
God sends to cleanse
the earth from darkness.

Just write
and let the soft body of your words
be what they must be.
Let them love what they love
and not cage the obvious flesh
that was meant to touch
and gather electricity into magic
each night gathering magic under the skin
until dancing becomes art of motion,
until eye contact with your lover
is enough to light a city
with all that sweetness.

Just write
in the comfort of the mornings
where the breath is easy and full.
Pen letters.
Outline stories.
Sketch the beautiful curves
of breasts and the smooth line
of a hip like you are seeing them
for the first time.

Address the envelope
to the universe
and clearly print
the return address
to the place
your heart lives.

It is where the sound of tomorrow
knows where to find you
already.

On Hearing Thunder at Dawn

The rumble,
the low hum of love’s thunder,
arrives with this day—
the storm of cleansing rain
blessing my soul’s home
with the force of God’s voice
whispering in my ear.

I am beginning to believe
in each morning moment
where inevitable smiles
signal the welcome
of the invisible hand
of a lover I have yet to know
and who gently strokes my skin
with hope.

Mist has risen
from the tired and aching heat
of the earth
where the first cut of June hay
is soaked by the unexpected clouds.

The farmer—
who worked so hard.
sweating to gather this early light—
digs his toe
into the thirsty soil

not in disappointment or regret

but rather
thanks the sky
for the answers to his prayers
to be washed
and to breathe each breath
in peace.

Morning Poem

The trembling leaves
of my hope
are tender and still
pink around the edges
of the green and golden light
of another
new May morning.

Fear and the iron taste
of aching anger
no longer live
at the base of my brain
but have been abandoned
near the sea’s shore
for the first tide
to wash these deaths away
with salt
and the vigor of cold waters.

Hold me to your chest
like breath returning
to empty lungs.
Feel the warmth of my hands
over your heart
where blood flows red
with the kindness of only truth.

It is at the remembering of this purity
that I wish to awaken
every day.

Psalm

How I have learned
to be without want;
to lie down my heart
so that comfort can be
as still as water at dawn
where not even the wind
dares to disturb the calm.

Restore my soul
and explain righteousness
for my sake.

Yes, I have walked
through places the color of sorrow
and with the ringing walls of emptiness.
I have learned that fear
is illusion, and alone
is a state of mind
when a feast of kindness
awaits me,
anoints me with joy
until I am filled,

drunk by the cup
my lover has handed me.

Surely goodness and mercy
are with me as I gaze at spring
and I take the keys,
turn them in the lock,
and gather the treasures of my life together
to sing the prayers of a monk,
repeat the chants of a warrior,
and form the notes
in the mouth of a woman
who is remembering
the words
to the most sacred of songs.

Finding a Crocus in the Grass

You gasp
and run to me
like only a small boy can

with delight at the wonder of finding
the color purple
in the brown grass
before spring has her way
with the sun

A single crocus
makes herself known
in the midst of that nothingness
so that you might pluck her
and present her
to me,
your adoring mother.

Miracles like this
are only for sharing
with this kind of unconditional love
between us
like a secret kiss,
like a longing unfulfilled
for a thousand lifetimes.

Blossom

Watch me blossom
like this day
where spring has arrived
at the party
ready to laugh
and drink deeply
of the golden light
that lives in the bottom
of the cup.

Watch me blossom
like a tulip
wound tightly
by winter
bursting open
with no understanding
of beauty
until you discover color
in the garden
next to a melting
mound of snow.