scent of snow on stone

smell of mist on grass

taste of sleet on dust

drum of rain on rock

heat of light on face

breath of God on neck

ghost of her in heart..

 Orienting

Smell of rain

On stone…

Sound of wren

On leaf…

Feel of floor

On bone…

Sight of him

In grief…

Taste of yeast

In bread…

Touch of her

On face…

Warmth of hand

On head…

Here and now

In place…

Stable, grounded

Safe…

PRAYER

  

To be fully

At home

In one’s animal

Body where comfort

And peace wash

All unease away

Rainfall’s caress

Descends smiling

From this all-knowing 

Mountain

Nourished by bobcat

Boulder starlight 

And tree. 

everything

 real

hinges

on home..

EVIDENTLY

 And on the 8th day

god looked a tad bewildered,

even forlorn after that amazing week

of 24-7 creation,

feeling they might have forgotten

something crucial to the mix,

an item so small it’s almost

inconsequential,

when you could see their palpable relief

as great shoulders relaxed and then

you overhear this low almost

imperceptible mumbling

to their behind-the-scenes long-term

partner, that sexy creative collaborator,

“Evidently, it’s the freckles.”

    Let’s keep plunging 

for pearls, 

feasting on oranges and pomegranates, 

    preparing for arrival 

into that river 

of silver and light.

death blossoming inside us

like an errant sun,

this unnamed

unknown

friend,

that strange package

propped quietly

on the doorstep

of your life..