to that particle fullness
chirping beneath this ecru canvas
somedays nothing comes to the surface
the clouds of this storm
cycles & spirals
carousels of summer
somewhere in the sculpted hole that is the moon
pressing hands against soil
from last night's thunderstorm
hail the size of apples pounds
lightening bright as lightening
downpour tempest water rising
grasping downpours melancholy
gasping fast to thunder booms
earth and feathers blue
hackberry's bark drips drips damp
from patchwork sky
grayest clouds and fireflies
the rain abates
except the great-horned owl
in the curly willow sighing
to light a comet tail burning
this night adjourning
somewhere in the sculpted hole that is the moon
what is it that arises when you look around
to find yourself
.... in a meadow of emptiness
too busy watching your footsteps to notice the lack
too busy watching
too tied in knots to discover the void
there you are
nothing pressing pressing in on
nothing pressing out
suspended jubilant molecules
down down to earth's fire
where is the water?
where is the moon?
where is love's surrender?
what is it that arises when you look around?
vast blue-sky emptiness
call it your name
dissolve to it
allow it to unveil
stripped and tender
you are fire
you are water
you are surrender
i am moved by rainfall
courted by lilacs
discussed by leathered gypsies around campfires
fired up at dusk amongst aspen & age
embers burning the silk of our resistance
distance lies only in the disconnect
dormant is the dream in direct proportion to wakefulness
ease into this summer fire
ease into allowing the possible
love is only as small as your container:
dance with the morning
taste the rain on your tongue
syncopated rhythms of petaled tender
we turn inward while turning outward
to the violet edges of linen old
crinkled clasping of celadon hope to breast full-striving
for the sulfur spring
while doubt circles disguised as stardust
we loom fierceness with hands leaning in ....
how can we tender so to such persimmon fragility
while soothing our own feathered fear & bones?
holding in fractal spaces defined by
lips pressed to peach skin pressing protection white white
to love in all it's brilliance
to the cutting sorrow path
I have never been comfortable with birthdays. Very sharp memories roll across my personal
super-screen of sherbet-tight ruche'd dresses, bobbie socks and birthday hats. It is when the singing begins, that ballad to birthdays, that I would bolt from the room inexplicably overcome with--something.
Birthdays make me squirm … make me long for quiet, solitary moments near water or mountains or sky. Recognition became intangible, uneasy, emotional. Somewhere along the timeline, my psyche determined that to celebrate birthdays--to celebrate myself--with abandon and delight, somehow appeared wanting. I was afraid of the emotion of joy.
But, something is happening. Over the last few years, I am learning how to bend into the receiving, allow room for the gathering of things given: parties, cakes, trinkets, artistry and Love.
I am learning how to make room for not only joy, but for myself.
In receiving, I am softening & leaning into the grace of openness.
It is an expansive and grand thing to be recognized, to be celebrated--to be seen.
To those with the patience and skill to 'teach' me … to love me enough to really know me - thank you.
We should never be afraid of being seen
,,,, just don't sing that damn birthday song.
when you are sitting in a dark room gazing out into the black night
and one lone firefly lights itself up like the fourth of july over the potomac all belief is suspended all doubts fade and there is a hanging possibility as it moves darting higher and i gasp as it is
beautiful and solitary and perfectly totally oblivious to the rain about to fall the thunder and lightening gpsing its way here to this small wee house on this small wee spot on this enormous big blue marble and all things become mighty apparent like the soul of horses the sureness of you the layered delicate task of parenting how fucking amazing books are
and the ridiculous over-simplification of wicked things like justice water poverty illness camping and lemon meringue pie--ALL become parts of the whole and parts of the something more requiring trust and love and that firefly sparks again and now there is thunder and the thrumming in my heart echoes into that place reserved for you delighting in that contrast of near and far suddenly the WHOLE sky lights up like one BIG firefly promising a crack, a passage a thread of electric brilliance linking time and wonder and all things true and well this crack this passage is waiting waiting waiting for completion for action and contentment to stay and risk movement
suddenly the firefly has vanished and as the thunder rumbles closer i am ready for a hot bath a good book and to dream of parts of the whole