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.

Riding in the Rain

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.

Inside, Out

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.

Waking Up on Friday

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.