Unlocked.
We’re not stone or tree
but all the terrible things
we do to each other
remain part of us,
rings of fire inside.
Laughing at time,
weeping over loss,
we never hold either.
We try to smother
our history by pressing
closely to others,
leaving us a patchwork
of etchings.
I wonder if every crack in the pavement
has a purpose
or if accidents are made divine
afterwards,
like Van Gogh’s potato eater’s chin
or the trail of a jet across a blue sky?
A woman saw Jesus in toast,
one thought Buddha conducted the river
like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia.
I don’t deny a former craving for answers
but confess
now I prefer how things fall together
or apart
in ways that look nice from a distance
real or imagined.
the forest hideaway
became the city square
trees were always quiet
listening to wind
watching flowers scatter and grow
there was a decade of birth
and its sticky explorations
inside was a seedling at rest
slowly curling into a tangle
that would overtake the mundane
somehow it became late in the day
on the path in the woods by the lake
with eyes and mouth and hands open
letting the song pour out
in ripening tones toward sunset
We alternate which livestock to emulate
depending upon the prevailing wind.
I am a leaping rhino or a meditating sheep
whether I look up or down.
I like to imagine being the woman
at the well with Jesus because I know
what being unworthy is all about.
The parking lot dust reminds me
of the desert I have never been to.
I am so thirsty for touch, the sun
has become a voyeur waiting for the moon
to pick its moment to show me the way
to the valley meant for me and mine.
I just do not know what is mine to keep.
Time is a lesser concern now as I see
heat enveloping all our fur, stars, and
laughter. A few tears remain but only
because the path from hoof to plan
is so arduous and exhilarating.
I followed the green tendril
leisurely along the trunk,
wondering how anything
can be so beautiful
in such a horrible world.
The rocks listened
as my eyes and hands
felt my way.
The Word Rummager 