Mid-February

Two men fly fishing

on a wide snowy field

and across the highway

the lake is thawing.

“Maybe they’ll catch a fish,”

my daughter says.

“Remember this,”

I reply.

“People fishing

on the wrong side

of the road.”

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Feeding the Angels

Out of the Quiet

this knowing comes:

an angel depends on us

to be

in sacred silence

in communion

with One.

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The Weight of Beauty

Gravity pales in Her face

Mother of creation

Crush us, carry us

burn us, bury us.

Let us Be.

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Metaphor

If we want to talk about

the mystery

must we use metaphor?

What about plain words

words like stone

and spider and star?

These words are not far

removed from the world:

Steam. Water. Ice.

All distilled from the One

Great

Song.

I am the stone-faced rational one.

I am creation's desire unleashed.

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Love is All

Wind, rain, fire, earth

What grief is this

Is there no old grief

new grief

only this grief, now.

Rain is rain,

water, water.

What anger is this

Is there no my anger

your anger

only this anger, now.

Wind is wind

fire, fire.

What place is this

The territory

precedes the map

How to step gently

between

your ground

my ground

Earth is earth

you, me.

What love is this

Is there no old love

new love

only this love, now.

Wind

Water

Fire

Earth

Love is All.

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The Dead

Morning and a white cat

run across the winter grass.

Are the dead

still following our stories?

Surely their view

is more universal

and yet

though I cannot

feel my mother’s presence

I know

she is as close

as my next thought.

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Smoke Signals

I found the hawk feather

it has been in the drawer

beside my bed all along.

My mother got the news

her cancer has returned

on my birthday.

I hope I haven’t caused her

as much pain

as I cause myself.

Thanksgiving Eve

She gets her sentence

And we eat dinner.

It’s time to tell the truth.

It wasn’t really a hawk feather

but it could have been.

This much love

won’t fit in a drawer

or a house or a poem.

If I had a hawk feather

I would send you a smoke signal:

“I Love You.”

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Summer of Eternity

Sing stars and green angels

ache in the ocean night

for the essential question.

Embrace trust

free the shadow

breathe the light

from

elaborate sacred webs

in the hot sun time

of this opening universe.

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The Psychologist

The psychologist asks the children

to draw trees and she draws

conclusions: the barren winter tree

reveals the emptiness eating within.

My tree has no leaves, yet

the branches are strung with

pairs of shoes:

broken boots, red high heels, old tennies

laces locked, tossed in the air

and suspended on limbs.

What does this mean?

My daughter’s middle name is Grace

and for five years that sustained us

until one day I forgot why I had chosen

to be a mother.

Desperately I wanted to fly away

walk into the night

down a friendly city street and

into a café

anonymous and free.

Instead, I prayed for Grace

and it came back to me:

I have chosen Love

Love has chosen me.

It’s good, my roots

reaching into this place

ground hard, alive with

dancing shadow shoes.

The low winter sun

shimmers through my tree.

If the earth can’t sustain me

this sun will.

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He Left

We stopped in front of the house

with gifts for the girls

he left.

The door hung in space above

shattered stairs cascading

down the hillside.

In another story

our words tangled in the phone

lines and he left.

The song played backwards

worlds fell away

dreams evaporated.

We visited his wife

whose friends had seen him

in dreams, so real

one put his hand out and

through him.

He told this friend

it’s like this:

you pour water

in a kettle

put it on the burner

to boil, steam comes

out and when you pour

the water is cold.

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The Beginning

She sang the Song

And the world began.

We are always at the beginning

of an ancient story

forgotten for now

the ways

the threshold

opens.

Fish fall from the sky

a small plane dives and drops

its live cargo

silvery scales flashing in the sunlight

aimed for glacial waters

of a tiny mountain lake.

Can we be these fish

airborne, alive and whole

in this moment

without hopes

or memories?

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"21 Faces of Tara"

1

Last year Kali

turning to

Tara

three sides

of a coin.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

2

Last fall I said

be gone

you replied how

can I

you are me.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

3

After lifetimes

together

real

ize

we are

one and many.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

4

Last verse

clunks

like skulls

strung

around my neck.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

5

Mother you have

broken us

early

that time may

heal us

whole.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

6

The number of stars

in the sky

equals

the number of fish

in the sea.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

7

(Whose sky?)

(Whose sea?)

8

The moon

will be

kinder

to Icarus.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

9

On the road

of eternity

you are

still

a shiny coin.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

10

Mother

your face

awaits us

at both

doors.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

11

Tara

your face

is

twenty one faces

are.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

12

Your words

are

painted

on the

wind.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

13

Only colors

could

tell

the story

of your

21 faces.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

14

Does

the invisible world

see

only

one face?

Om tare turrare ture svaha.

15

When I look

through your eyes

I am

the invisible

world.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

16

I bow before

those

invisible threads

braiding us

together and

apart.

Om tare turrare ture svaha.

17

I am

writing this

inside

room number

21.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

18

May we love

in ourselves

all

of your

aspects.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

19

May we love

in each other

all

of your

aspects.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

20

Tara, I am

becoming

more and more

who

I like to think

I am.

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

21

Om tare tuttare ture svaha.

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KNITTING

One week in Shanghai

I watched every morning:

An old woman sat on a park bench

and knit, black yarn spooling

from a paper bag.

And each day she ended

by unraveling all her work.

I inherited my grandmother’s knitting basket

and when she was young

my daughter took scissors to every soft skein

leaving only the single pink slipper

Grandma finished the week she died.

Now, years later my daughter remembers

And finds the lone pink slipper.

Teach me to knit, she says, and

I’ll make you the other one.

They are yours.

Last week we talked about our losses

past and those to come.

I felt even more the unmentionable ones

and I remembered the antidote for grief

is one small motion after another, like knitting.

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February II

Late afternoon

light washes up

on the lakeshore

and through the window

I read this news:

the shell of winter

softens, retreats.

If my pen

were a rake

I would harvest

those thick bands

of dancing life

and pour them

into this verse

for you:

drink

drink.

jam