Girl

Girl,
What is your name?
What is it that the universe calls you as you
walk by my house,
day after day, fast
all in black?

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack. . . .echos
like a child crying--
like you Girl. Like you.

What is it that your mother called you, Girl,
who were you -- baby
when you cried?

Cried tears
like silver buttons. . .
all down your back.

Oh, Miss Mary.
I would pay you fifty cents
if you will tell me

What calls you to dress
in a dress. . .when nobody your age-in this age-
wears a dress. . .that covers arms and legs
so sweetly,
so mysteriously,
so plainly,
and matches the night . . . .

you walking in meditation
for miles and miles
until you are thin as the long hair
that falls down your back,

as thin as the line between
love and the smell of ginger
and cloves,

as thin as the light before winter

closes in,

as thin as the sound of a voice cracking
to call out to you—

to ask you your name,

to make room for your sad story

this sunset
before the lake

freezes over.

The Last Sunday Morning of Summer

Silent
but for the sound of my own breath
and a few cars on the highway--
the breezy light gently creeps
to the edge of my bed
and whispers me awake.

I am almost able
to hear the leaves releasing
their hold on the end
of branches
as cold comes
and makes that grip
impossible

save the stubborn oak
who presses his lips together
and turns his face away,
resisting the ease
of so much joy.

For him
freedom will come
in the dark of December
and with the tumble
of ice and snow.

But today I watch
the color of the sun
escape into reds and gold
tripping drunk
after a long night
of forgetting.

I will ready myself
for the communion
of Saints
and the raising of voices
to the universe in praise
of this soft leaving.

The new way
eventually surrenders
to the low moan, the humming
of long notes
at the end of the spirit
so much like gospel
and blue grass
we move our feet
in a gentle waltz,

aching to be held
in the arms
of a distant lover
before kissing goodnight.

These blessings are worth keeping
in well lit places,
or between the pages
of the hymnal,
so we don't forget
we have them.

Jumping the Banks

The rain that has fallen
for what feels like forever
is at it again--
eroding the roof over my head
one particle at a time
with this tapping at tin--
this invitation to open up
to the sky.

Maybe Noah has a new contract
with God
"Please clean the Earth.
Get between the cracks."
is all it says
this time.

But I have
my own contract
to sign
as I jump the banks
of my body,
let my mind and my heart
flood the fields
where I live,
ignoring the same paths
I have carved with each spring
with each new rain.

I am weary
of the same grooves
I trace through the trees
and their ancient roots
that stand over me,
holding me in place,
where I have smoothed
the jagged granite
until it is comfortable
in someone else's
hands.

Today I will change
direction forever--
ignore everything solid
but my will of watery power
and glide free on my way
toward oceans
and the places
where the tides
gently caress
the white hip
of the moon
with so much joy.

It is here
where my laughter tumbles
onto the swimming skin
of my Love
and I am
reborn
as a single drop
of rain.

Clean
and ready
to begin
again.

Before the Storm

The electricity
that is summer
has moved from the air
thick with fireflies
into the wings of angels
and the black crickets
that hop and play
in the dried leaves
of grass.

What was summer hums
and sparks at pink dawn
before the storm of fall
announces itself
in frost and furry of winds
not seen
in my lifetime.

You have traced my soul
with your fingers
in this sweetness
and the single steady note,
this simple touch,
sustains me.

A kiss
to my neck
awakening me
from my silence
in this empty nest.

Curtain

I see it.

The future
in a single window.

A wandering breeze
exactly in Italy
on a lazy August afternoon

and this curtain
allows imagination
to take flight.

You
don't even touch me
and I am
gone.

Fading

August, you escape me.
Your heat and light disappear
into the vegetable garden;
into the parched grasses of the field
and the promise of lush lawns.

How I resisted
capturing summer
in a jar like fire flies--
let it drift by my window
at midnight--

not holding on to anything

only the observer
of this fading--

this folding in
on myself.

These dirty feet
carelessly soiling
the clean, creamy sheets
of cool comfort,

exhausted
by so much
heat.

The Luck of Two Herons

The young rooster crows
early this morning
as summer begins to fade
with the exhalation toward fall
and all things dark.

He is finding his voice—
finally gathering the sound
of wisdom in his chest
and making that mighty sound
fly from his throat
while he still
has a chance.

Birds are like that.

Yesterday
two herons circled
the lake into which I dive—
gather the truth of myself
together in the waters
so that I might make it
through another winter—
gather the light in my skin
and in the blood that will be
made in my bones.

The luck of two herons
circling above my head
and reflected on the surface
of this mighty pond
is almost enough.
I might live forever
with this much joy. . .
with this much good fortune.

I grab a breath,
pull myself under,
glide smoothly
for a long and delighted
blessing of water--

an enlightened flight.