Archive | April 2014

Green

So much simpler
than you might expect —
life wants to live.
And it handles
a surprising degree
of neglect —
only faltering
a step or two,
then recovering.

However perplexing,
we come to love
the scars you make —
and the overriding power
of pleasure’s
mingled pain.

You could leave it
exposed in the winter meadow,
but still,
when the goldfinches
are again,
so much of their song
says “sweet” —
life makes life,
green makes green,
and love
wants to love again.

Advertisements

Caught

I want badly
to be enough —
but before I know it,
I’ve made the turns
and am,
again,
facing down the wire —
wondering where
or whether to cut.

And there is no word
for this —
just as there’s no word
to explain
the intensity of blue water
under sun when spring says,
at last.
So I’m out again,
courting the wind
and all the voices
that carry you across.

We had only a moment
to notice the sound
of feet on ground
before all the wonder of return
dropped us down again
to dreaming.
And in learning to linger,
we languished too long.

So what I want to know now
is this —
does it ever end?
And do we even want it to?

Detachment

We try to make space
for breathing.
And there is
this cold compassion
that seeks the point of tension,
intention,
thin cells on a slide
beneath a lens,
light shining through
this transparency
we never see.

We try to make shapes
of ourselves
and wonder
what words we are spelling.
Also,
if it is still possible —
acquiring a new language.

We look for stillness,
and stand outside the glass,
attempting to acknowledge
a need for this detachment.
Count each day,
and at some point realize,
we still feel the moon
coming in behind the clouds.

And no matter how far
outward or inward
we step into the temple —
upon each emergence,
our eyes fall
like blue wings
upon this point,
upon this horizon,
and we know
what waits,
what lives there.

Walk

I thought the possible,
but know never now.
And here.
We cultivate disheveled flesh,
drop the not needed.
I never did know
what we wanted —
only that I
would never have it.
And here.
Winter’s cruel kisses
changed us
beyond recognition.
But I am outside of it.
And here.
Begin the slow work
of acceptance.