So many lips
and sips between
words exchanged,
some necks handled
lightly, some gripped
with labels peeled,
and a smattering of tops
like schrapnel,
as the night goes on
and the stories get better
until nothing remains
except this giddy
pile of bottles.
Both feet
firm, rooted,
crown lifted,
palms open,
shoulders down,
breath even,
spine long,
jaw relaxed,
body bright,
open heart,
grow tall,
be still,
reach down
into this
moving earth,
one chance,
face forward
toward life.
nothing so sublime
as a Colorado night
in the summertime.
Like the morning, stream
into everything. Bring with
you, your perfect light.
The moon is getting closer
and fuller, and so is
everything. There is beauty
in the broken sugar bowl,
in the stacks
of dusty books,
dog eared
and leaning. Tree shadows
speckle moonlight
around the lawn
and so we gravitate to
the bright places.
The music is sweet.
Our legs go up
the mountain. This river
runs on and on.
Water softens
the stone.
We are
smaller than
a tiny
dot in
a great
novel, but
that doesn’t
mean that
we still
shouldn’t do
everything we
can to
make this
story more
beautiful
.
discard the untruth
that let you forget you’re made
from the dust of stars.
On the edge of control
(leaning toward none),
I grip the brakes, tires popping,
spinning over root
and stone. Humbled
by the hurtling,
I am certain
that I am not the one
controlling this experience.
Look ahead of you,
my friend advises, See
the path you want to take,
not the obstacles
you are trying to avoid.
And between peals of thunder,
everything changes.
Exhilarating raindrops link
the rolling clouds
to our bare arms,
and the way
becomes clear.
This is the season for rivers,
swollen and rambling,
the time for roses
pink and wild,
for sagebrush,
and the air
pungent with beginning. It is
the afternoon
of the chipmunk scrambling
and the raincloud
raining, the hour
for the resting of muddy shoes
and perhaps,
for napping. Today
is making the space for noticing,
and in noticing,
finding the spaces
for love.
Orange sunlight
fills the body
still half
in a dream,
and slowly drips
consciousness all the way
down to the toes
and fingers. In
the brevity of sunrise,
you are the impermanence,
like the dream
you are leaving,
a brief vessel
for the sweetest of birdsong
and the scent
of dew
rising through
the open window.
