| I am going to walk toward the sanctuary
*
There is this:
the shadows moving
on the stones at the bottom of the pool;
how different the body of the insect
striding on the membrane
between light and dark.
*
Take this
stone,
stone�s mother
stone�s father
stone child,
cool
in your palm.
*
When the children came
to that place
it was calm
out of struggle.
Each wanted
to place a foot
on the moss,
worlds called
out of the mist
entire. But grandfather said:
step only on the stones;
their life can bear
your passing.
*
And so that was the game,
stone from stone,
heat and laughter,
and we saw
at our feet
the unfelt lichen,
a thousand colors�
chalk white,
the blue of a robin�s egg,
the violet underside
of a snail, and the red heads
of moss, and the smallest
of spiders� webs,
each net,
jeweled.
*
We were in that place
where the birds flew
below us
and the dragonflies mated
around our eyes. My son said
he would build his house upon
these rocks. My daughter filled
her hands with
blueberries and
the youngest
piled stones
to carry back
to the garden
she had planned.
*
There is a bird now
in a cage
in the city.
He fans his broken wing
above his eyes
waiting for
whatever light
or warmth
can come
into that place,
to heal. Yesterday
he flew
to the top
of the cage.
I know
the time is coming nearer.
Will the children
let him free?
*
I cannot remember my father
speaking. He walked softly
in places where silence
was useful. The canoe paddle
should make no sound
and only the most careful ear
will hear the fly on the water
and know it is different than
the sound of a rising fish.
But he did say: Sing, if you hear
a bear. They would rather know
you are coming and step aside.
*
We were able to be
in that silence,
the boat drifting;
why do I live now
with people who demand
so many words?
(Or is it I
who is always asking
to be heard?)
*
Oh bear, come,
and take your seat.
*
We have come
to a sacred place,
a circle
of stones,
a seed pod,
a pine
cone, a medicine
bundle,
the egg case
of mantises;
someone gathered these�now
step outside the circle.
We are still
within.
*
Drop down
on a silken thread.
Doe the worm know
the ground beneath?
*
You told me the trout lives
within the prism of the water.
In its world light is reflected.
Where is the surface that twists
our light?
*
A young tree grows
beneath the canopy
of great ones. It spreads
its branches low
to gather life. What is my world
that seeks shadow?
*
Dear spider, I will not
lift a twig or set my foot against
your web, but should I blow
away the insects
from the tunnel
where you wait
to pull them
against your heart?
*
What if when my body grew old
it just dropped feathers
that the children could gather
and hold up
to the wind?
*
The men I know all carry water.
I think that I must rather thirst.
*
Did we go this way before?
It doesn�t matter.
I think I�ll try
this way again.
*
There is the black space that is the crow
and there is that which
is not the crow.
Open your wings,
follow your brother
away.
if I close my eyes
you will be an empty space
carried for a moment.
*
Your stillness
outlasts mine.
*
I do not need my eyes to know
where light falls, and if I climb the ladder
of roots, I can come no closer
to your heart.
*
You see the life
in a fallen tree,
beauty, in the dissolution
of form, a thousand points
of life from one.
*
I am looking for the talisman
I found as a child, the smooth stick
carved with runes�only the tracks
of beetles, feeding beneath
the bark. But why should their tracks
not teach me?
*
Ant, what do you carry,
so alone? Where is your home?
Your path seems so
intent.
*
Who would think
the forest a place full of death,
yet life crawls overall,
green and full and steady.
*
Did you walk today?
Did you watch your feet as I did
or did you lift your face
to the air? Why do I so need
to feel what you feel
to feel that you are
my own?
*
I thought we had gone beyond that place
where men had piled stones upon stones.
I see now that we have not
and so this place says sit and think a moment.
No, not think�be be be
until you are inside the net
of the spider
held by the space
the emptiness
and not
the limited
strands.
*
I have much to say
about the dangers of leaving the path.
I don�t think I�ll say them
today.
*
There was a miracle here, but see,
even the deer�s hoof scrapes moss
from the stone.
*
I know there is water. I hear it.
I believe it. But today
I do not expect
to see it.
*
How can I let go
when there are so many things
I want to hold, to learn,
to know? Why am I so troubled
by the thought that you will forget
my name? Why does that matter
when you can hold
this green leaf, this twig, this grass
blade, this stone. Is my name
more true?
*
I have let go
but my hands are not empty.
When the thread broke
there remained a binding
of light. Since I never stopped falling
I have really been
in flight.
*
I do not know if you are moss
or flower
but you are each a tiny sun
and I cast my shadow on you.
*
I cannot remember a poem about childbirth.
I see great tree trunks heaved out of earth
and the force was only that
with which the stem
split the seed.
The first time I was drugged,
the second time I was cut,
but the third time the body
was not my body
but all the world�s and I watched
when the seed split
and the child spun
waxed and sleek and strong
into my hands.
This was not my power,
but odd,
the power needed
me.
*
Grandfather,
there are students
for your bones.
They have held them,
seen the places of
attachment;
seen the breaks
and the healings.
Flesh is gone,
warm muscle,
brown eye,
white hair;
your bones,
I might have held them
for a moment,
held one, laid against
my cheek
and set it aside�
well used,
let go,
untied,
loosened,
windswept,
open,
clean.
|