The surface was rough to the touch
leaning against the bark of the wood.
From the fluttering canopy above
to the leafy carpet where I stood,
the gothic pillars high from the ground
upheld the forest around;
and the rustle of the leaves 
from branches swaying in the trees 
gently danced 
amid the late afternoon sun.

Resting my back to the trunk
I slid down 
to repose my weariness on the ground
and there, in timeless silence and still,
there was a shelter in the land. 

A sanctuary from the bleak and barren plain
without words or comfort
and open to the wind and rain.
But here was a cathedral of half-light,
a refuge under a darkening sky
dappled by the dying rays flickering night and day
on the bed of leaves where I lay.

I could dream in the gathering gloom
as, after walking, walking, walking,
I had at last found a home
in the welcoming words of the sacred woods
a language away from the rush of Time.

Pressing palms against warm bark
I feel a whoosh of sunlight.
Time stretches out like a long thin pour of honey; 
sweet and glistening.

A heartbeat lasts a whole day here.
An in-breath heaves the sun up over the horizon 
and the exhale pushes it down the other side. 

The pop of a new leaf unfolds like a dust mote floating 
to earth, slow and exquisite.

Each breath flows like soft cotton 
from my open mouth, sending ripples through 
green bridges and folds.

It is quiet here. 
I can hear the footsteps of ants, 
dead leaves decomposing,
the trickle of water flowing up stems and trunks. 

I stand for hours held 
by the collective reach toward the sky. 
Here, I can swallow sunlight and drink tree sap 
and live forever.

 

If you ask me for my name 
I should share about the shepherds, 
the invasion of the Normans; about the meaning 
of “a gift from God” 
and of the towns at peace. 

I could mention immigration, 
a printing press, an orphan. 
Or perhaps the pony-preachers latest sermon. 

You’d hear about the Ouchitas 
and the Cossatot River. My mother 
and her mother and hers. 
My father and a place called Mena. 

I came into a world not my own, 
with a land I didn’t discover, a family 
I didn’t name. It is here, 
among the already 
that I grow.  

If you ask me who I am 
I should open to Genesis. Talk 
about the voice of God, 
the unlistening heart and a promise. 

There would be a garden kingdom 
with morning rays, and a Man walking 
in the coolest hour. White cloth 
as from a silk-worm, 
dying on a stick, living like a flame. 

An answer I didn’t start,
I won’t end, and couldn’t write. 
A story that’s in me 
and that I’m in. 

If you ask me what I love 
I’d answer honestly: 
I love being here, talking with you.

Every time I do something 
in this house I wonder, 
Will this be my last sip of coffee in this spot? Will this 
be the last time I stoop beside this particular patch 
of blueberries and pop the fruits 
in my child’s mouth? 

I saw an iridescent frog. 
He did not move, but his heart beat so 
fast in his throat that I feared he would 
explode. I looked away. I was worried my gaze 
was more than he could handle. 

I dove, again, into Hebrew. 
I love the old ancient language, feels like the 
core of the earth, with all of its secrets and 
solid density. 

At a small church by the beach 
I sat down and felt God. They say 
he doesn’t dwell in temples. I say 
he dwells everywhere, but that he does like 
a quiet place with a little dust and
beautiful windows. 

I am working on more poetry. 
I wonder, of course, what I can add to the 
dialogue of humanity. There is a conversation, and I 
wait for a place to break in, to offer something, 
some little dazzlement of interest. 

I try to expose my legs to the sun 
as often as I can. I have this primal urge 
to gather ultraviolet in my cells, which goes against 
everything the experts advise. But still. I pull up my skirt 
and offer my legs to the heavens.

While walking I heard a sparrow singing by
And thought to write a lovely little rhyme.
The birdsong heralds life in twilight glow,
As flames of fire fall across the snow.
The dancing lilac hues on winter white
Turned to violet blues that streaked the night. 
Each thread unraveled from Joseph's coat of color,
Daily varnished no two evenings like the other. 
And then I thought what strong hand divine
Could lift such a heavy canvas to the sky?
To light the torch that world around revolves,
Each morning to warm the hearts of all. 
The very rocks and stones are sure to cry, 
As the water from the brook rushes by. 
And so too with I—walking this winter morn. 
Look! Book of nature! Feast, and praise the Lord!

I try to craft a poem,
to construct a sturdy 
prayer box, but the words 
collapse, scatter,
alphabet detritus 
littered across the page.

With a new day’s optimism,
I trade hammer for spoon,
yet stirring the words yields
a feeble stew, bland and
watery in the pot.

What if the poet’s gift
has flown to richer hosts?

I panic at such a thought,
then remember what to do.
I reach for the rich words of others,
feed on Anne Sexton’s “mother-broth,”
seed my ground with borrowed bounty.
I await the promise of plenty.

Home is more than just a noun,
though the Oxford dictionary may try to tell you differently.
But home can be an adverb when he holds you to his chest.
Or that feeling of returning, 
to where you were always meant to be.
If you believe in that sort of thing.
There’s a reason young people go away for a time, 
before they realize the very thing they seek— 
is right where they left it, 
when they thought it needed to be found. 
Home is more than wooden frames and painted doors,
tiled bathrooms and outdated cupboards.
Home is more than a concrete box, 
cold and indifferent to the occupants it contains.
Home is more than just a noun, 
even when the mind has lost its way.
Even when the beating heart,
forgets.

Dressed in her wedding gown,
wearing a veil of mist, blossoms of virginal colors, 
interwoven, braided into heavenly locks, 
so lovingly brushed. 

For several weeks in her pristine glory, easterly 
winds make no suggestion of dislodging even a wisp,
she is blissful without a care in the world.  

Then before Beltane fires have been smothered—the land 
is demolished—spat on by man's inhumanity raining drones 
and bullets like hailstorms ridding evidence of existence. 

The bride’s dress torn apart, leaving her naked, left to mourn 
for what could have been . . . each innocent life lost, their names 
etched in salty tears, each plant and species washed away.

Litha then comes to celebrate, for what? A broken heart? 
Scorched earth? This widowed bride is losing faith, yet gradually
throughout the darkness, in soldier's footprints, there 
begins proof of resurgence. 

White campions find cracks in the concrete cities, bright buds, 
dandelions, and sunflowers bring renewal to toxic areas. 

Then, as new life finds sustenance in nature's hidden lakes—
Brigid’s satin flowers begin redressing the bride. 

She is bruised but still alive, still breathing, scarred 
but no longer naked, life returning, blooming 
in wild defiance.   

Three minutes old when we first met.
She carried you over, placing you on my chest.

You lifted your head, dark eyes searching
as I stared in wonder at how one so new could carry such strength.

And I think of a seed that is planted in the earth—
how from nurture and nature it grows to what life intends.

Sometimes.

Because nature is not always kind,
and sometimes nurture is not enough.

But when things go right—
when the green bud breaks through the warmed soil, 
life, oh life!

The tender seedling striving for the sun.
The warmth of her body against my own.

To hold a life. To hold this life.

To hold a life that has only just begun.

Jacarandas burst
in hues of purple and blues—
they giggle with such glad faces.

I wish I took more pictures
in Lusaka when they bloomed.

They remind me of you.
For months, you’ve searched
beneath the ground, soaking up rich waters 
and waited to debut
buds and now flowers.

You could spend your time
wishing blooms appeared 
sooner—but why? 
Instead, let’s take pictures.

Let’s place flowers on the altar
and press them between
pages of sacred text
to be remembered in colder times.

And rest in this 
daring but sure truth—
you will bloom once again.

Above all, love no one.
You mustn’t know of the rose 
in the valley. Never hear
wine-deepened songs
or see sun through trees 
like fine white shards. 
When you come to a day
of warm swollen weather,
or stumble upon an ordered thing
in a wild place, ivy over walls 
or furrows with primal seeds, 
flee the way you came.

Put it all behind you:
old folks still drawing from wells
every dawn, Alpine smells
(God, how clear the air), 
birds, all kinds, crackling 
in the rust-brown leaves.
Or else it will face you
like a warrior with sword and shield—
a true anguished wonder to shred 
your leather-clad skin
and meet you beard-to-beard.

If you must do something,
work hard without rest or end
until you’re always numb 
with a nothing sort of buzz.
Let seasons pass without melodious order.
Let Earth spin without mythic making.
Memory mustn’t sprinkle its meaning.
There’s no light in the moon.
The pond is not dead calm.
The story is not a dream
remembered at noon.
The boy does not laugh
how your brother used to.

You must never, not once, suffer
the fatigue of your existence 
and question if there’s more, more—
throw aside all rhymes that sound
like news from another world.
Just sit there and wither 
into a modern kind of man,
rich and grand, and leave
the gods for another time.

in the quiet
find your peace—
a place to be
when nothing else
makes sense

rest your head
in the unknowing,
the unfamiliar,
the obscure—
for here, you are

nothing will
make sense
yet

in this crucible,
change is already here

what you once knew
is no longer true,
and all of life
groans with anticipation,
aching to glimpse

your transformation—
as you become
wholly undone,
held in your chrysalis,
until you burst
into new life

Sunlight streams through the windows
Fingers of light touching every surface of our home
For just a second this hand of light 
Reaches out and catches your hair 

Your brown hair glows amber blonde
Light strokes your hair
With all the care and caress of a mother
And warmth of a friend

It brightens up the room
The same way you do every time your little chest laughs
It scatters across the floor
Like the pitter patter of your little feet

There is a halo illuminating your holy little body
Backlit behind your perfect little head
I snap a picture
A brief snapshot of how I always see you 

The picture captures 
A kaleidoscope of colors
All I see is how much I love you
The sun is not big enough to contain my love 

How much light you have brought to my life
Spectral sunshine
Holy Light
Brightness of Love
Hallowed Blaze

Mary mistook you for a gardener
where she wept among tender blooms
and bumblebees, yellow bodies
hard at work, collecting sweetness
while she grieved.

Did you wake from death 
and smell the flowers, fragrant
in the newness of morning?

Did you wander past the stone
and drink deeply of the garden air?
Did you kneel down in the dirt?
Did you find weeds and spare them?

Did your hand brush the soft petals 
of delicate flowers as you prayed 
for the first time since your death? 

Mary’s sobs outside the tomb 
must have broken the quiet stillness 
of Easter morning—rising up over 
the chatter of birds. 

How much I am like her, Lord,
to weep, and not recognize you
through the tears welling in my eyes.

Grief is like the martyred soul 
Which buries its own body whole. 
Digs with spade and shovel, through dust and dirt, 
Until the corpse is covered by the earth. 
Little by little, inch by inch, 
A blanket over this small ditch. 
No procession planned or found, 
For this one lonely burial mound. 
Only man stands over his own self,
With tears of remembrance like snowmelt—
That water flowers to spring and grow, 
From the death of dreams from long ago.

Sunset blazes in a walled garden,
clouds leafed like wedding cake. 
Orange warmth stripes stones
over the entrance, into the grass.
The smell of honeysuckle, 
made vivid by rain, 
will follow me beyond 
the shores of a moment.

And somewhere,
the sounds of late tide
between the spacious 
hours of night’s silence.
If I could reach out,
timid quiet would 
shy away, for what 
we cannot hold 
is what we should 
love the most—
moonlight, laughter’s
warmth, golden oil,
a hunger for story,
the flower already gone
between the iron gates
of the garden. 

I run to the edge of my gravel driveway 
and bask in the red light of the entire sky 
glowing like a succulent blood orange cut open. 

I remember how much dread with which 
I used to greet each day and how 
the day would nod her glum head back 
at me agreeing, Oh yes, life is bad. 
 
And how this very morning—cold, sockless 
at the holy edge of asphalt and grass
I allow myself to receive 
ultraviolet.  

Did you know that the sun does not even 
set or rise? That we are spinning 
even today, when everything 
seems so still. 
  
I walk into the center of the empty road
and stand there among the song 
of the red-breasted robins and cardinals cheering 

me on—a silly mother basking in a moment 
of rapture before the children 
of the world awake. Like a woman 

who remembers touching the glow 
of her grandmother’s red ruby rings
and hearing her say, One day, this will be 
all yours.

To make my mother’s apple crisp,
begin by planting trees like my father did:
a hundred and twenty saplings,
just whisps of branches
with bundles of roots.
Give each child a shovel
and show them how deep to dig.
Plant over thirty varieties to grant
the longest picking season possible
and cross pollination
for healthy trees and fruit.
Sweet Sixteen
Haralson
Courtland
Fireside
Winesap
Each name is a song
the earth sang to me in childhood
full of lake breezes wafting the scent of clover
and alfalfa from fields encircling our home.
Those trees’ lives were in our hands:
we mowed between the rows, 
bought bees for pollination,
wrapped trunks in covers every winter
to keep rabbits from nibbling tender bark,
and watered for months until roots were deep enough
to siphon water from the ground.
Don’t forget the dark and fertile soil,
enriched by melting glaciers 
to make our apples
taste better than anywhere on earth.

Don’t count out these leaf-lorn trees
That hold their tongues. Or rivers
Chained with ice in silent song.
Or frost-faded grass, the listless page
Of winter’s tiring tale. All green 
Is gone, like memories of May, but gold 
Still sparks within the dying days.

So hold a deeper knowing. Dirt and dark 
Are always good for growing. 
What wonder! Earth has all the seeds 
She needs, promises unfold, a hundredfold
Like faith beneath the ground. 
True for now, the soil still must sleep, 
Truer still, we shall behold the green.