hope like arugula sprouts
big enough to be seen
from a second-floor window
*
cat out and leap-chasing
shadows—sparrow, crow,
flick/sway of still-bare branches
*
water wind-rippled in bird baths
sometimes sun-shimmered, reflecting
on redbud bark
*
that april blizzard and how
we could see again
smooth-swirl snow on rooftops,
dollops on red-budded trees
a day of sudden hard light:
we’ve grown so tired
watercolor gray, so
with each visible sunbeam
we anticipate snow melting
on the verge, imagine the bee-
house warming and all green
pushing from the other side,
touch to touch, still seeking
wisdom’s communion
but tree-tough, immune
to frost, to blossom
You can read Frost’s “To Earthward” here.
what is the spirit? how you felt
exhilarated in the rain and wind
that one time, you were ten
and traveling, you knew
actual magic
*
you must bring it
the yoga teacher says
no one else can
find those places
of either hurt or release
*
in ancient Greek, I’m told
pneuma, verily only
the stuff of life
which blows
over all our heads
*
true dark skies last summer
Milky Way and eclipsed sun
beyond earth’s wind
beyond need for meaning
when will I be available to this sun
wanting to warm cloth skin sense
that kernel last lick of faith
in ground that must prove
again and again its fertility
to leaf stem root worm
you make the god you want, not of gold
or even paper, but green-warm earth—hail
it as something gifted from the blue.
what is your church? but this slate blue
mountain, bare slopes, trees brushed soft gold,
solitude, song; or fall’s sharp wind, rain, hail,
snow silence. eyes closed, face lifted to hail
pilgrim thought. no room for guilt in sky’s blue:
if the soul lights, burns ember-gold—
I am. (gold-hail prayer in this blue)
Thanks to Christine for the three tritina words.
water flat calm, brown
still, winter’s pure opposite—
a heron, wading
in this brash laughing season no curiosity
for everything is on display and all the work
long done—you see the bloom the fruit wild
without worry for the killing cold season
far and far away spring frost forgotten
like a bad dream—so lay your head just there
in my lap sunlight washing through closed eyelids
this caress the breeze on your open throat
and if all beauty all bounty is not for you…?
Last week, one of Claudia’s snippets included the phrase “episodes of curiosity.” It stuck with me…
on this rain-drip day
goldfinches, summer-plumed, dart
sweet song and sunbolts
17 may
which will I remember for you—
grass-grown gravel track away
from constant surge and pass of cars
in bright sunshine; eight ducklings
tumbling in still water beneath the bank;
willow’s huge grateful shade; one tractor
loud-plowing this last possible acre
among apartments, hospital, shopping mall
*
18 may
all ducklings aground
in hidden huddled shelter;
gust-ruffled water
everything fades in time, you know
how all was black before your birth
and after—you have nothing else to go on
clinging to every look and gesture
winding yourself into being
*
not every spark ends in a sun
transcendent, though
your hand is on the work
indelible
National Poetry Month is ended, but I still have pages in my Yes-Words journal…
Graceful Press Poetry 