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 here.now


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.

Whence the Magicians of Myddfai?

In the sacred morning we grow new habits so strong

that the song precedes the song.

Before the needle drops.

And what is ritual but a compulsion toward alignment

with the gods known and unknown,

the ones whose absence thins our blood,

the ones we shun.

And we are bound and a rebound to this thing simultaneously

of and not of

our own making.

(Depends how far you see.)

You see?


were not meant to be thus.


what even are we?

The women in the water tried to teach it then receded.

The patriarchs of the word called them mermaids –

fantastical –

and so dismissed Our need to heed their Song.

They demanded silence.

They turned their backs.

And we too –

still –

are turning  day to day unto the final Fall.


what even will we be?