Tuesday, April 22, 2014

What is buried brings you life.

She makes her way with sticks. Dirt is
never dirty, and bushes, bark and berries
hold universes of possibility. She digs.
What is buried brings you life.

She knows in the bones of
her being that the backyard swing
will bring her the sky, that she will
touch forever and always be free.

The effort is luxury, legs pumping
hard back and forth and longer
and lighter and every now and then a lift
off the hard plastic seat.

Trees in the yard are her familiar;
a constant conversation
of every spoken nothing/
never spoken everything

pulsing in the thrum of the hum
of wind and leaf and roots that
reach for truth deeper than eternity:
what is buried brings you life.

Stretched out on earth that scratches
bare skin, she breathes sun from the soil on
this small patch of grass she claims as her
throne. As above/so below.

There, in the deep of the deep and
the sky of the sky she swings. She sings.
She waits. Skinned knees/crooked
smile/wild hair. No apologies.

What is buried brings you life.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Searching for Signs: A Poem

There was a moment
we thought Winter
might stay,
Ice and Cold and Gray.
I was making ready
to welcome it -
And learn the ways
of Eskimos
and Polar Bears.
Warming with fire,
not sun.
Fishing in frozen
streams. Making friends
with this new destiny.
But you kept on
searching for Signs:
the Red-winged
Black Bird,
The crocus, the sap.
And the yellow and blue
Of the sun and the sky.