We could wish it were so.
We could wish it were.
But there is no voice
to fill the void.
What care we used to take
with pen and paper —
when meaning something
meant something to us.

We no longer touch each other.
We no longer see each other.
We no longer hear each other.
And we no longer believe
what anyone says.

Our good guide
is lost or dead,
cutting short
our ramblings.
And we choose insensibility
over pain.

Lately I sense
you are breaking
your habits of independence,
and can’t help
but lament the loss —
but maybe’s it’s
just one of those things:
how we only desire
when desire can’t be fulfilled.

And I’ve been told
time and again,
that to find happy
you have to fake happy.
It’s never worked for me.

Today the smoke and sky
stretch thin and gray
across the meadow’s
expired grasses and goldenrod.
And the winter birds —
cardinals and jays,
chickadees and sparrows,
finches, redbellies and juncos,
and always the bluebirds —
are sleepy,
but watchful.

And with feet heavy
as our hearts,
we bring out the torch
and set fire
to this faded joy,
that something —
unexpected or familiar —
might find the light
and grow up in its place.

Originally published Nov. 21, 2013


The supernatural quality of this silence —

silence that is not silent,
birdsong stilled —

leads me back to the river to kneel —

hands to head,
hands to heart,
hands to earth

— with my offering of tears to the ocean.
(“I still have a couple more years.”)

Maples are turning,
and redwing flocks follow green down.
Robins and bluebirds trace the salt backward
to where I watch,
eyes closed,
behind the gate that separates wild and will.

And I can’t tell you anymore,
how it is.
I thought it just hurt —
age and unbalance —
but it is more than that
and worse than it was.
So I make this silence a devotion.
They follow. They watch, the birds.
They know I can tell it.
And how.
And to whom.

50 revolutions

i read love like a sentence,
with resistance.

forget it.

and forgotten —
that we were just fodder for the wheel,
an illusion of Will.

and I am self(ish).

we have to let go of the need for a Future.
(how I fear for Us.) —

walk away.walk away.

we get real small.
fish in a cup running over.
break down the gates.

it is


Heaven tried to warn me
about Chiron —
the echo of the wound,
circling back round again.
Look right into his eyes.
Face that fear.

After all,
I’ve been doing that work anyway:
rattle a skeleton key
and the ghosts come out to dance.
I have to close my eyes,
or look out the window,
or finally run away
to that ground where I can bury my feet
and wait to remember how I am held,
even when I am not held.

And what would The Fool have to say about that?

It’s a thin rope that moors us.
And the tide is getting higher.

trust life.
You are held.


With the greening leaves,
sit —
the worship of morning light.

Remembering my stained glass season,
how I turned away from the lovingcup
to far inside,
too far,

and now must wake again.

And bow,
and bow,
and bow,

until I can recall —
to slow and rest,
open and illuminated,

cup overflowing.

How It Is Helpful

In the darkening moon,

it is still warm.

Take off your shoes.

Shush. Listen.

Your feet will feel it.

How is it helpful?

I choose desire —

to brood and wish.

I play with pictures and scenery.

But in the moment,

joyfully alone.


I want it to go the way I want it to go and wish for what is not there.

Shush. Listen.

Your feet will feel it.

They are trying to teach a lesson.

I wish I were companionable,

a lithe form to fit,

and willing to turn two into something less than one.

What can we do?

Keep tuning the aerial.

The words are in the wind.

What a vast task of instruction.

Shush. Listen.

Your feet will feel it.

It is coming for you too.

catch and release

A wasp in the window and the guest perspective –

the danger of your own violence or the strength of the kindness that drives you to help a friend in deed.

“Not one lover will I love.”

But trust –

the pollinators and the weeds,

the pigment on the page,

the word in the Dream.

I place my faith in tending to the unbent branches that yet grow.

What lies broken below –

let it go,

let it go.