Remember
For mothers

You pushed pause because it mattered.
It matters still that you let your hope
incarnate itself in a person who pulled
you out of you, rendered your bounds
porous and expansive, at least for now,
because the contours of your perimeter
were set, in large part, by fear, before
you had any say in the matter. But the
time is coming – is perhaps upon you
now – to gather the pieces scattered
by your defiance of despair, the bits
of your original outline that can serve
your soul's broadened vision. Today,
remember what has yet to come alive.

 

Glacier

The glacier groans as it grinds,

inch by gravelly inch, gashing
landscape as it goes, cutting
scars that will heal to host aster
and aspen someday, perhaps,
but long after my life recedes
from view, reclaimed by this
valley between granite gods.

I have a date, a date with a page,
a date with a pen, a date with my
fingers, to tap, to scribe, to take
dictation if it comes. Indulgent
chaperones preside as sweet no-
things come and go, and while
Mr. Critic takes his daily smoke
break. Maybe this go 'round he'll
just take a walk instead, the start
of a turnabout to transform into
Counsel and Coach, who steps in
the arena as an Ally, rather than
standing, cross-armed, reeking
of death, at a spectator's remove.

What Wonder

All this spinning and equipoise between
dueling draws – gravity and the otherwise
trajectory – it's a wonder. Not a wonder of
the world, but a wonder that this works at
all, that all the substrate of life on this scrap
of rock has hung together somehow, for so
long, and persists, at least for now. And you
don't even want to get me started on the
magnetic field, a goddamn miracle in its own
right. I suppose some may take it as curse, a
burden unchosen, while some may take it as
granted, which is worse: the silent, mindless
maw crushing riches to dust. But I wonder,
what wonder, what gifts, arise from awe?

 

 

Permission

Sleep. You have more work, and play,
than can be conducted. Time to take a
ride, pigeon. Fly. Soar. Light on a wire,
take in the view. If you must make a
decision, decide this: not everything you
need, or want, is a matter of will. If you
must make a commitment, commit this
to memory: prepare – the rest is magic.

Winter Light

Moon casts oak shadow.
Owl woos her dark twin on the 

milk-drenched, bone-strewn field.

The soul-weary tend to linger, longing
for the last bits of magic still hanging,
glinting in the black of wee morning
air, as the first ribbon of red flame limns
the eastern sky. A few more, they plead,
just a few more of these clean breaths,
before the blaze of Day, 'neath the gaze
and glare of the One who drives, drives.
Onward must have its inward, as all the
journeyers know, and inward must have
its outward, its reach, its touch-and-be-
touched by what lies beyond the veil of
                                                                light.

                                                  

Where the Colors Return

We cannot see our way out.
It is too dark – or rather, too
light, so light we've saturated
our eyes, blinded our minds.
We're in too deep – or up too
high, so high we've lost the
feel for the ground underfoot.
We will likely have to crawl
to a saner place than this one,
plod on hands and knees to a
point where the colors return –
or perhaps they never left –
where we can smell in the soil
sifting through our fingers the
ochre, the amber, the indigo,
the vermillion, and the sage.

And just like that, we're back on the upswing,
tallying a few more minutes of light each day.
I'm not ready (I never am). I'm still, in need of
still more minutes to be held in winter's womb,
to gather the strength of this stillness for the
passage ahead, and the world's work beyond
that. I feel the pressure building, mounting in
increments toward the next crescendo. I'll get
with the program, soon. I will. Soon. Not yet.

Solstice 

I want to carry this dark with me
into the days of unremitting light.
This dark cradles more silence, a
reservoir of space – time serves
as a buffer between raw nerves
and the unrelenting noise of the
seasons of growth. This dark has
befriended my soul, wrapped a
blanket around my shoulders, set
me down and whispered, Shhhh.

Alas, I am derivative stuff –
clever, perhaps, and wily,
but tethered to vegetable matter
for everything that matters:
earth, water, wind, fire. The
sun-drinkers – those green-spirited
shamans who spin light into food
like water into wine (or straw
into gold) – they deliver the goods,
all the elements and accoutrements
of my person, and all for the low,
low price of a few wasted breaths.
It's literally the least I can do, a nod
in the direction of mutual benefit.
But we all know what's going on
here. We all know who's getting the
better deal. I get off thinking I'm
scot-free; they imbibe unmitigated,
unmediated light, world without end.

Wild Rumpus

"And now," said Max, "let the wild rumpus start!"
           - Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are

Shake, stomp, glow, romp.
Lift, fold, bellow, hold
your arms out to the moon,
call to the stars with a howl,
                                        a swoon.

Sweat, sway, moan, pray.
bend, cry, reach, try
to pass the mark of good for you,
embrace the dark, behold
                                        the view.

Homefire

Just let the rock and sway of the heart
in your ribcage take you where it will.
Trust me, it will not lead you astray if
you're still enough to let its needle find
its north, to settle like clean snow. Now,
practice the courage to listen with eyes
closed, spine supple, nerves tender. Sit,
just long enough for one chip of light
to take up residence in just one cell, to
kindle the homefire and call you inside.

Let Us Walk

We have a long way to go, likely longer
than my lifetime, or the life of my limbs
to carry me there. So let us walk. Let us
stride in the strength of the sun-charged
meadow and let our feet fall steadily on
the fungal forest floor. Let us march our
legs up, over, and around any mountain
we meet and don the garb to shelter our
skins as we span the desert stretches. It
is a hard road, this one, a tutor, and only
of those students ready to learn to carry
into a new range the joys of journeying.
So let us shoulder the burdens we must
to arrive, at length, at the starting point.

Now?

If the answer is always "Not now, hon'"
when is it now? When do we get to set
ourselves down in the moment like the
baby set down in her playpen, a whole
bounded world to explore, to rattle, to
tip, to prod, to pry, to taste, to practice
with gravity and see how it goes? If it
is never now, it is ever never, and how
is that not worse than death, by which
there is, at least, the consolation "was"
to contain a former "is"? What is is 

forever, partakes of eternity. So what, 

                                                             now?

Dancing With the Stars

New day, new way, new chance to dance

                                        with a new set of stars.
Who will take a spin with me around the
galaxy? Who will fly to attend Andromeda's
ministrations, and pursue Orion's mark? Who
will roam the neighborhood with Taurus,
ruminating on Being as a constellation of light?

The Sacrament of Sleep

I'm not sure I can do this. My timing
is off, and the day's debts collect in
the lids of my eyes like offerings. So
I'll not fight. I pass the plate, fall in.
My jaw slackens, heart slows, ready
for the rinse of rest, brain eager to
bathe in clean ether, an elysian elixir,
of sorts, received in ritual preparation
                                        for resurrection.

The Proposal

Whatever integrity I have, I have
got by not peddling assurances
about the future. So if it's such
sweets you crave, I'm sorry, I'm 

not your huckleberry. But if
you want to hold hands as we
walk this wooded path, past
where it bends in dappling light
just there, I'm game. Chances are
it's rough in there, and blissful –
the elk bull could just as easily
impale us as lead us toward an
alpine meadow awash in bluebell
and scarlet paintbrush. So what
of that? Shall we fall in step, in

love, and see how it serves?

Hankerin'

I had a hankerin' for heaven, so I walked
outside, found the heron at the slow bend
of the creek, the hawk at his post, the hare
and the honey bee about their business at
the edge of the wood, where it meets with
                                           Mr. Owens's pasture.

Horizon

We call it a "deadline" but again
traffic in half-truths, for the dead-
line is the lifeline, the limit the
gateway to infinite play. Horizon,
alone, draws the imagination, the
very currency of Creation, its life-
blood, being birthed by bounds.

 

Pampas Grass

This blade of pampas grass – I know
it as a blade because it cut me deeply,
drew blood, and the wound, bandaged,
                                    stung for weeks –

this blade – tasseled, golden, waving
in a late fall breeze so strangely warm
as to draw suspicion something may
                                    be off here –

this blade is very nearly nothing, the
spaces between the elements of its
substance being so vast as to throw
                                    all into question.

Do You Hear?

Ever the patient tutor, the universe
rarely shouts, barely raises her voice
above a conspiratorial whisper. She
will lean in, when she must, and will
pierce an eardrum, or two, in extremis.
But she prefers to let her pupils come
to her, drawing them in on the silk
thread of her sibilant song, so soft 

                            one must strain to listen.  

She-Wolf

Perhaps now is the time for silence,
the full-bodied kind, not the sort
that shrinks from the world, but the
breed that steps back and gathers
wisdom to itself like the she-wolf
gathers her pups to nurse, satisfying
mutual need, storing in the young
whatever strength may be had to face
a future of struggle, because there is
no other way, not really. That kind.

Faint Glow

This may not work. The odds are long.
I cross my fingers and hold my breath,
but that guarantees the future about as
well as a teaspoon captures a roaring
river – or a tranquil one, for that matter.
For that matter, the teaspoon is better
suited, since it will catch something,
certainly. But nothing is certain about
the future. Not one thing is known. It
eludes, escapes, even as it leads us on.
It shrouds itself in fog, mist, mystery.
It does not submit to machination. It
asks us to give it a minute, let our eyes
adjust to the dark, follow its faint glow.

 Home Calling

The future is near, the future is here,
                                                right here,
beneath our feet, the loam that falls
through our fingers and calls
for our companionship, invites us:
stay, settle in, slow down, strike up
a real conversation about growing
                                                some roots.

Willow

The willow is my teacher, who
weeps with those who weep,
eases the hurt,
holds what needs holding,
shades the tender from heat –
and dances through all the winds.

 Make It Brief

We're gonna have to keep this short.
But maybe that's best for both of us,
a chance to put this moment's loot
out front, before it tucks into the rush
                                and tumble of the day.

So let's make it brief, 'cause the sun's
up, the child chatters with imaginary
playmates, and day's demands press
their faces to the pane, tap, eager for
                                their rounds of catch.

So whatcha got? Yeah, me neither.
But that's what we do, right? That's
our job – we make somethin' outta
nothin', and we call it good. How's
                                that for holy moly?

 Homeschool, Day One

We will start with something simple:
the out-breath of this juniper is your
in-breath, as is that of this stand of
sweetgrass, this ebony grove, this
kelp forest. This is the first lesson.

Thanks be to God.

This moment, and that one there –

     oh, and that one there! – they're
     streaming by so fast, I can't catch
     them and put them in this jar here,

the one I labeled "Moments" just
     before I ran outside, butterfly net

     in hand, to see if I could collect a
     few specimens. They flutter by

without warning or slowing down
     in the least, dip and dive, zip and
     Zoom! – there they go again! –
     alive and pulsing with energy,

not a single replica among them –

     each an irreplaceable token of
     time, not to be mistaken for
     a mere fungible commodity,

not lugnuts, not interchangeable

     parts, but the very brushstrokes
     of one good life, a life given to
     making an art of this moment . . .

                                            and that.

What magic will befall us today?

I'll take the kind that radiates,
weightlessly, from the sun, or
drops as rain, swollen sky bits.

I'm here for the kind that makes
provision for the goldfinch and
clothes Queen Anne in lace out
in the pasture, the kind, indeed,

that clothes the pasture itself,
weaving radiance, rain, and the
castings of hosts of soil makers,
who dwell unseen, underfoot,

into yarrow, bluestem, timothy,
goldenrod, and orchard grass –
the kind, indeed, that feeds even
as it swathes, a compound magic.

Things Unseen

It is here, once again, I am met with
the paucity of my own perceptions,
the sheer neglect of sound and sight –
not to mention the other senses –
a deficit with a long history, rising
to the level of a debt I'll not repay
in this life. I would need a litany
of lives to learn that on which my
very eye depends, the intricate web
of beings, those animate collections
of force and matter, who gird me
from behind and below, who guide
me from within, who draw me out
into the light of day and whisper, 

                                    "See here, you."