gone

emptiness coming into thunder
as the hackberry rustles in the wind
i am the rustle
sky white upon infinity's throat
no honeysuckle drip dripping
no rubbed & inky pages
the void lies thick against the blue jay
lines of conduct are hot to the touch
hot
where does the yearning go?
where is the pull to you?
wrapped in sureness
dancing against the light
amber-love rich
golden flight of the knowing

courage

slipped in sidewise
between
maple leaves
and
the summer-pressed stillness
of this july morning
time opens its wonder
to
everytime
before
and
yet to come
wrapped in unfolding day lilies
at once
6
and
60
freckled sky against the spell
warming warming
this day
of
rustle & remark
even the blue jays are quiet

this moment
slipped sidewise
to the sun

sun tea of peppermint & licorice

There is a lawn mower mowing

a female cardinal chatting somewhere 

this July sky 

not blue

not white 

too bright 

to gaze at for any length of time 

air heavy with humidity and Baghdad's sorrow 

and 

the 

weight 

of 

forecasted 

rains 

the summer is 

wild 

fierce 

and vulnerable.  

I am dreaming of water 

not blue

not white

but too bright to look at for any length of time  

a boat … sunshine 

and those things associated with you that press against heart & bone 

the lawn mower is still mowing 

and now a wren is calling for her mate

and the rains will come

of two o'clock on the second day in July

the smooth perpendicular curve of the
tap tap tap
paper-white anthems of fireworks
pierced and petaled
staccato hour of day
tap tap tap
periwinkle comes the afternoon
resplendent in its smells of weariness & woodpeckers
the air feels perfect; azure crinoline brilliance
gleaning seeming
tap tap
will it rain later?
of green labyrinth stillness I become
pink aster's sun
awake
and
listening

dream at five o'clock in the morning

somewhere in the sculpted hole that is the moon
i fall
pressing hands against soil
feathered wet
from last night's thunderstorm
hail the size of apples pounds
lightening bright as lightening
downpour tempest water rising

i fall
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

drizzle
the rain abates
birds wake
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

strawberry moon

what is it that arises when you look around
to find yourself
discover yourself
.... in a meadow of emptiness
too busy watching your footsteps to notice the lack
too busy watching
listening
waiting
attending
too tied in knots to discover the void
suddenly
there you are
nothing pressing pressing in on
nothing pressing out
suspended jubilant molecules
pressing
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?
emptiness
vast blue-sky emptiness

advance
embrace
call it your name
grasp it
unfurl it
dissolve to it
become it
become emptiness
become vast
             and blue

allow it to unveil
unravel
stripped and tender
you are fire
you are water
you are surrender

you are the strawberry moon 

birthdays

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.