Reminder (Part One)

 

You remind me of the lines

that have been drawn 

between the soft parts of the body,

where hands draw me closer in the darkness,

the quilts cover all that must be forgiven.

In this lucid dream

I am so wide awake

that I am almost

the sacrament that rests 

on my tongue.

 

I breathe.

I swallow the words, tenderly satisfied.

 

I inhale.

 

I am between God

and the earth 

frozen under my feet

in this darkest time.

 

At night under the cloak of clouds

the owls wait for me to arrive at home

and call to remind me we are in transition

between body and something lacey 

as the distance between the stars.

The birds call out, deep and throaty

to lovers just like you are,

 

but this will be the last winter 

for the warmth of the breasts 

that nursed me into the world.

It will be the last full moon 

before we plant ashes

near the man 

who gave us everything.

 

The lines are drawing tightly

and make me wish 

for so much more more 

than the relief 

that time can give.

 

 

Returning to Words

Every farmer knows enough

to let her fields sit fallow for a time,

to leave the earth alone in her own bed

without the urgent needs of the harvest

calling her to task.

This thin time quakes with longing,

surges with God’s voice in prayers

for something more

to awaken from the marrow

in the Beloved’s bones.

In this narrow place of returning to words,

the poet reclines, sated and naked,

stripped down by time and timid

looking at the white skin of the page,

perhaps exploring the curves

of her own body of knowledge,

touching each vowel tenderly,

letting the lips of some new line

kiss her.

It is so quiet in this place

between desire and consecration

that anyone would believe

whatever whisper

is delivered by the muse.

Ocean Dreaming

The last time I remember the ocean

it was in the bodies of whales

infused in the saline as phantams

meandering gracefully with their babies

in the depths of some other time.

 

This water was surely syphoned from heaven

into the liquid pastures where mothers

whinnied and groaned,

cuffing the napes of their offspring

as they slid closer to God

for a view of forever.

In the reflection of gazing

into one enormous eye

of another mother,

it was impossible not to bristle;

fear and extacy the twins in my belly.

 

Trapped in the allure of this seasick vision

I pushed to birth my own offspring

into the world of unknowing,

smooth and effortless as ever.

  

 

Considering Fireflies

The first lightning bugs

have started their dance

in the field across the road.

 

Every inspired flash

is like a tiny lighthouse

frantic to find a true companion

lost in the vortex of chirping peepers

and cyclone of mystery that awakens,

passionate and hovering softly.

 

The compass is not lost in this voyage

toward love.  The night is thick with hope

for those who think 

they might know 

the way home.

Longing

In the brine of the evening,
after all the rest of the day
has been put to bed,

liberty is on a collision
with the smothering tasks
of responsibility
and what must be done.

I squirm knowing how to do this better
and the freedom that is just beyond
now.

I am ready as a maiden
lacking the liberty to choose;
locked in my own constraints.

In these quiet hours
I am longing to walk away
from everything
into the wide ocean,
nothing to see and
nothing to do
but sink into the night
and the darkness near the stars.

I float on the still waters
and peace is with me.

April Wakes Up

This month of April wriggled her way
out of the shivering dream of the dark and icy
ocean of winter that drifted far too long
away from the shores where the sun
knew how to bring us home.

This bundle of daffodils
and rain on the roof
rocks me, comforted
like a blanket.

Joy here is a fleece jacket
instead of down coat;
bare toes in sandles
and legs sans black tights;
and leaves raked away
from the mole pocked yard
making ready for the first mowing.

Garden gloves are at the ready
near the garage door
with the clippers
and mud boots
are obvious
and necessary footwear.

We must awaken to the red flowering maples
and the green we can only see this last week
of the month where everything is alive
with the buzz and peeping of the world.

A Poem About Green for my Unborn Granddaughter

Tonight
in a circle of women
I have decided to write
a poem to you
about green.

This color
of waving young pines
is my favorite color
especially in early April
in Vermont.

Green dances in sun
near the setting time
and birds are looking
for the night's sheltered places.

Tonight
in a circle of women
I have started to knit
a small blanket
full of wisdom
the color
of the beloved sea.

Beloved,
you will know the sea
like the waters in which you swim
and grow inside your mother's womb.
This wild and peaceful darkness
is all the home you will ever want

until you walk on grass green with spring
and pluck peas from their pods
into your open mouth.

Then green will be everything
that twirls and tumbles
into eventual dust of understanding
and more love than any mossy tomb can hold.

Some night soon
in a circle of love,
enfolded in the soft woolen comfort
stiched with whispered prayers
offered just for you,
you will hear the magic of singing peepers
and the gentle rain pattering on the cool earth
and dream of daffodils and crocus
blooming in the Green Mountains
and the Amma calling you into this life.