Unseasonably warm,
but the sidewalk still icy
so we hold each other up
as the snow melts
and refreezes
and melts…
Unseasonably warm,
but the sidewalk still icy
so we hold each other up
as the snow melts
and refreezes
and melts…
Three things I am:
1. Comfortable in the quiet house
2. Trusting of this heart
3. Confident in the unfolding
Three things I am – also:
1. Uneasy in the quiet house
2. Hesitant of this heart
3. Uncertain in the unfolding
but what is the point
of definitions
when tonight
all that matters
is the way
that the sharp,
slender moon
has rocked
into a perfect
white crescent?
In paper,
string,
or quieter,
waiting
to be untied,
undone,
the gift
revealed.
Lighting the candles
more than a gesture
when the children
(and I)
need reminding.
A ball of yarn
this heart unwinds
spin and dwindle
stringing trails
of red through
quiet rooms.
Following
the garden’s
final opus
we linger
to fill our
pockets
with vibrant
puzzle pieces
of each other,
mapped across
foreheads,
hearts
and the creases
of eyes that flicker
with the wisdom
(or innocence)
of the mystery.
In the hours between
the rooster and the dog,
where the round rock
balances impossibly,
the Mexican Buddha
watches the horizon,
unwavering in the shadow
of the white breasted
frigate. Still-winged
raven etches black
circles on the salty mist
and is also tattooed
across the back
of the Buddha.
Heron bones swivel
pale feathers and foam
along surf’s edge calling
silently, burn bright
and return to the sea.
Blooming kitchens imbue
this snow glazed road
with steak and cedar,
smoke and cinnamon,
as nighttime dines
on all things once
familiar. Winter accepts
darkness like an
apology, and only
the diminutive flame
ablaze in the window
remembers
that the sun will
soon swing
the other way.
My wish is for
eighteen more
of you in the
world, says
the five-year-old
to his big sister,
and we sit back
into the sum total
of what we
know.
Ranks of frozen
cottonwoods march
into languid river fog,
black silhouettes,
then nothing.
How I long
to follow.