Monday, March 5, 2018


                Restoration

Suddenly you notice 4 or 5 stalks of grasses,
golden and green, each one unique,
swaying and nodding, surrounding your head

as you laze on this earth near the lake
on Sunday alone. They seem modest,

standing at attention in unearned service
to you.

Thanks are offered, once they’ve been seen,
for their protection and care, their
restorative dancing in breezes
and beams of sunlight so thin,

while smiling quietly you inhale sky, 
swallow cool air, praise these birds
of water and trees for their ongoing din,

turn your bony skull over and over
searching for comfort, for home, 
on edges emerging from half-buried stones. 

Sunday, March 4, 2018



      Next

Sometimes the next  
necessary step to take
is to stop,

not to step at all,

but to lie down
on cool grasses
near the edge of a lake,

eyes closed, listening to clouds,
tasting wind, cradled by earth,

or to stand still at an arched doorway
next to a tall stranger,
a woman with short brown hair,

where together you face
an unseen inside of perhaps
an ancient church for as long
as it takes,

until either Silence whispers
its subtle language of trembling delight 

or every footprint is swept away,
erased finally in rambling floodwaters
of surprise as a river of fire arises,

wildly flows rousing every cell,
muscle, and shy desire
of your bodies’ once quiescent futures

towards whatever happens
to become
next.