With anonymous faces
you watch over my cradle,
your voice as soft as the aurora,
hair the color of a Ditch Lily
brushes against my cheek
and when I look up
my own face echoes back
My first rainbows are soaked
in your tears,
I am busy with life Mother,
its been so many years.
I am filled with light,
is that so wrong?
Even in death we live on
until the last breath can
no longer recall us.
Rooted in the cold ground,
ethereal, is there a soul
beneath that cold marble?
Has time returned to the origin
before there was light?
Perpetually I come here,
through the edge of every season
beneath the purple sky
I breathe the eternity of you.
Do you ever scream out unroll the earth,
dislodge these stones?
Do you ever feel my unfathomable
grief in your mouth.
Birds soar high above the ice chiseled cliffs, roil over ancient forests at the moss covered foothills of Mountains. I hear the voices of ancestors, perverse whispers of hate and grudges, they are witness to our deception. They know the gaps in our souls are filled with the same darkness as theirs. When we once again come face to face they will tell us how the hours passed so quickly. You are that bird whose wings beat the air senseless, rainstorm eyes protest a dream unlived. That perfect blue honey of desire you washed away in golden brown. Swoop down, I miss the sound of you. Tell me how to survive beginnings. Save me from this carousel, my arms outstretched not knowing I am still spinning.
Between sleep and wake we
fall like stones into a silent lake
traversing birth and mortality.
Water pearls drop from unfastened palms
tiny moons slipping through fingers.
Deeper I find you in the iris of cat eyes,
not your spirit or rose tinged snow but
flesh and bone and sinew whose sigh is
an ancient strophe where we do not die
but flourish with the sprouting seeds.
When words were your only nourishment
I fed you calla lilies budding in my throat,
the shimmering wings of a thousand bees
thrumming walls of verse.
From the stacked shelves of your smoky library
I read to you Aristophanes,
of all poets we loved him best.
In the final hours
we longed for rippling wheat fields,
certain of life and death.
Today I held a whippoorwill in my hand. On the wing, attracted by the sun’s rays he flew into my window pane. I don’t know how to save a dying bird. I soothed his sticky feathers as his glazed eyes fixed on a different galaxy, held him in my palm until his breast bone ceased to rise and fall. I buried him in the settled shade of an ancient Ash felled by winter’s gusts. Above his resting place the sky was as soft as my words. Now I put it into the world as though it is my responsibility for every living creature is significant and as beautiful as the shimmering rain from a golden cloud.