In The End

In the end
everything is silent.

There is no distraction
of breathing or the beating
of the heart against the walls
of your body.

In the end
everything is light
enough to cast into the wind.
Ashes and feathers and love
fly together
without even giving it
a thought.

In the end the voice drifts
into the back of the mind
until the smell of vanilla
walks into the room
with her hands on her hips
and asks

"Are you here?"

Holy Days

The vapor of your face
is a thread
knotted
to a small memory.

The voice I hear

immune to the lightning
and crash ending we all know
in slow motion
and so very violent.


The phone call home
on Christmas night
was heavy as granite and pictures
with a broad understanding
of what little remains
after each breath.

The lungs begin to fill,
sit parallel in the chest,
and are so very close
to the wisest heart.

What grief now lives
on the alter of each precious day
raised above your head
like the host
at Midnight Mass?

Christmas Eve Before the Storm

Quiet and waiting for the sky to drop all her stars
softly after the ice landed like magic
on the tender Vermont trees,

my children are scattered
here and there like winter
and the next Alberta clipper.
I know the storm coming
in my bones and belly.

While I listen to old Bing Crosby
sing "Silver Bells"
I am thinking of my Navy father
and the way that he always
made it home for us
on Christmas morning.
No matter how far away,
he was there
with the tree
and lights at dawn.

Tonight with the crooner's smooth voice
lulling me into this dream of another night,
I can't get Daddy out of my head
on the morning I was six or seven,
maybe before my sister was born,
asleep in his black and white robe.
It was Mayport, probably 1970,
and he didn't wake up
no matter how excited I was
to show him my new blond Barbie doll.

His face was so still and quiet
while I waited for the miracle of his return
to wake up and notice the life
he was making for us all.

Blowing on the Fire

When

I slow down,

take in

the breath

I am

getting ready.



It is in

these moments

of inner silence

that I feel

the earth

rumble

in my belly

while I consume

the air

for these

next steps.



I am not

holding on

to love

anymore.



I will not

stop

the flow

of the wisdom,

from this belly

that will not

let the fire

go out.



My hands and heart

are

warmed

by the flames

that roar

inside

this body

while we laugh

at all that we have

become.

Prophecy

It is at a window on Main Street, Vermont
where I come to the ugly edge
of the end of all ends,
to the prophecy of closing the door,
awake dreaming of the goodbye.

Here we are in the dark and smoky mirror,
gray and looking at each other,
whispering in quiet code,
predicting the clean cut
of the golden cord.

Say something,
anything that will allow God
to take notice
and send the angels
in time to carry our father
into the roots
of this earth
he loves.

Prayer with the body
dances with death;
ready for the separation
from the skin.

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.