On Meditation

Wait for a while at the side of this path of meditation
and you will notice, if you are lucky,
the simplicity of each inhalation and exhalation
and fighting to just keep pace with the busy mind.

There is no way to quantify kindness
like this simple act of each human life.

The act of breathing is the skilled
and mindful mining of the essence of air.
That generous openness is all that is ever necessary
to let the lungs nurse a life
from each individual breath.

And on this morning,
sitting quite as a lily on the surface of the pond,
I will sojourn on the edge of a pillow
in the middle of abundant love.

The Midwives of Winter

In the deepest cold
we, the creatures of the north,
exchange pithy glances
beneath our layers

mumble under our breath,
nearly frozen and stiff-spined,
muttering something about the sun shining
or the lack of snow.

The most shrewd survivors
of the climate smile,
lips sticking to teeth
and eyelashes careless,
tears gathering like icicles,
yet non-responsive to the staring of strangers.

We are the midwives of winter
coaching the determined through the crowning
and toward the birth,
even when others have given up hope
of ever seeing spring slip through
without a bit of pushing.

We wait with faith and the understanding of the turning of everything
toward light and that the earth under the gathering snow
will warm and deliver us with the delicate joy
of the most secular of flowers.

Another Deliverance

These fruitful days,
these gifts of the universe,
exceed any lonely call in the night
I might ever imagine.

The prominent grace of the high clouds
on the face of sunset is pink and gold
against the leaving of the day--
all the forgiveness I need.

No one can imagine
another deliverance
as sweet as the rising
of these stars
that gather lovers together
like it was the last day.

Until it is the end of time,
make me change my mind
with words whispered
before the rising of the sun.

Enduring

I have pursued happiness
like any woman enduring patriarchy;
men shaking their heads in disapproval.

The source of my private redemption
is the recurrence of song
and in a private voice
that often serves
females of the tribe so well.

However, I am marked by my pleasure.
I am radiant with laughter and a smile
that does not allow me to hide--
does not make me eligible for initiation
into the silences or the suffering
of the mute mothers of my lineage.

The Spirit of Holiness
stirs in my belly.  I am confused
and saved by angels and winged creatures
who lift me up like a storm around the body--
glowing and frantic for a place to find rest.

This place of rest
is strong as my grandmothers,
open as a ripe flower,
and as peaceful as our people
who walk away from all the weapons
and every tear in the fabric
of all we have ever made.

Dervish Dances

Rehearse your words of escape
by repeating the truth

that you deserve the kindness of a single hand
that has slowly been extended in love

and the palm guides movement
where torture, on toes or the small
of the back,  is never close

Laughter inflames the horizon
of each day before us
and sets the world
into the dervish
dances of the moment.

The language of movement
drawn in circles and cycles
and lightness of bodies
channeling God.





Rehearse escape inflame torture

Supplicant

Raise your glass.
There is no excuse for not celebrating
the bubbles that rise to the surface
of the clear source,
this fundamental texture
of all elements of extraction.

Place your hands gently
on my face and breathe the breath
that escapes from my lips.
The intersection of our expiration
is inspired and full of God.

Embrace me,
oldest friend,
and observe my reverence
as I fall to my knees,
supplicant to all we share
in this moment of divine love.

I am not worthy
to received these gifts placed
quietly and with no expectation
of return,
and yet, I am rich
with the abundance
of your silent intention
uttered in the warmth
of the darkness
just before dawn.

The Litany of Sleep

The litany of sleep
has me listing the ways
in which this day reminds me
of how to love the recurrent thoughts
that foster all the ways I am broken open
to simple kindnesses.

I smile at the surprise of skin
on the back of a hand
painted with flowers.

I delight in miles traveled
with renewed prayers on my lips
like honey and sweetest
water from a generous well.

I sing as if my voice is silver
slipping through a ring of birds
who bless me, sacred and wise musicians
translating joy into sound.

My breath is shallow
and whispers quietly at this opening
where the birth of a new life
is an invitation to deepest truth
that we all understand
and have forgotten how to read.

Take the pages
from the purest white.
sheets soaked
and waiting for time
to rush in,

and divide the unexpected
into equal portions
of  inhalations
and the letting go
of our grip
on air
we've already
consumed.




recurrence, surgeon, litany supreme foster