passing through

beauty has deep roots
and durable clothes on.
there is something earthy
and eternal in her walk
though we can't know
where she'll go next.
where she might crop up -
in the most unfavorable places,
most likely.
her journey is arduous,
grievous and far,
but the ground beneath her steps
pools with joy, every inch.

graduate school

my mind is a rake
gathering up
the brightly colored
straying leaves
of other people's
thoughts.

the field is
an ample flame
reaching for the sky.
its yellow branches of
fire-light lift and lilt
against the blue
leaning of night.
gophers turn somersaults
laughing to cry:
come near sweet showers!
cleanse our world
again.

It is time to be converted,
once again.
Sell all.
Every last cent
poured out for the poor.
Keep not proud thoughts.
Be clothed in coarse garments. Your
downed head with hair undone,
weep for death's undoing
everywhere.
Then stand
before the cold winds of silence
with your naked open hands.
It is to be human. It is the only way
to be born again.
Receive
the astonishing richness of God.

anniversary

Flowers flicker light against the sapphire sea,
the sun plays the fiddle and the grass
yawns, stretching its thousand arms.

There is so much to say. So much

that floats

on the soft winds of easy silence.
But only a whisper is heard -
a butterfly brushes past:

"Rest here, rest here awhile, children.
For moments hold and gather
the real. Then comes time."

for S.

you were a delicate child, so
awake to the life and lives
that danced around you.
a dreamer with a wit
so sharp it stunned.

what night came into your world
when your father was taken
from you
so suddenly?
what hope was arrested from your heart
and where did faith fall to
from all the beauty you held?

you were a delicate child.
touched by every bloom, color,
and breath.
but none can live
untouched by death.
so fear spun each day into darkness
while hope grew frail and aged.
until you couldn't bear
the loving touch
of the world any longer.
or even the belief
that Another held all of its
glory, sharp edges,
(as well as your father)
in his arms.

You couldn't bear it.
you wrote beautifully about it
then you left it.

Sylvia Plath

"A Better Resurrection"

I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is like the falling leaf;
O Jesus, quicken me.

Reaching Out

On a precipice I am
listening to a bow
against string.
Up here,
touching rock and wind,
I am hidden
in contemplation
soaked
in gossamer air.
If only to glimpse
life again!
Far and wholly away
from ruck and wave
and question.

when i've given up on words
(which is usually
too often and
too easy)

i enter the silence. it is not always
death;
it is a spaciousness
formed by centuries of living

bearing with the earth
over times, transformations,
the history
of human feelings
and actions.

if you listen

if you get to that point that is
silent enough

you can hear it.

the word upon which all else
moves
begotten from the heart of God
and burning

through everything
for
the cosmos and you.

Let it.
and that word will hush other words

incising your heart of stone
til it become flesh,
making it
a fountain, clear and flowing forth.

Now, speak.

sundown approaches and
we wonder
what it is
we've been waiting
for. all the striving
settles like
dust turning
to damp dirt
beneath our feet.
our lives, like a crumpled
piece of paper
toss and turn unevenly
across the grass, away.
it was for this moment
this one glimpse
where despair kisses
the Great Coming
of All Being.
it was, finally,
for this exact death
we've waited, so to enter
into the hope
of all that Is.