Poetry
To See New
Wherever we look,
the chance for wonder.
From my desk, I spy
two white-spotted, spindly-legged
fawns frolicking under the mulberries.
When I speak to them gently,
they rotate already-large radar ears
toward me in curiosity,
then bound off into the oaks
after their mother.
Oh, to live seeing everything
so new, inquisitive
about all earth’s inhabitants,
all earth’s smells,
imbibing leaf and fruit and petal,
learning what to trust
and what is best to leave be,
having a free-flowing body
to experiment—
one that prances and sprints
across grassy hillsides
and vaults over fenced orchards,
eyes drinking in the blue, blue sky.
—first appeared on Grateful Living
My Place of Dreams
When I say thank you, I see myself
stepping out onto warm sand,
facing waves that greet me,
my legs and feet grounding
with our planet.
A soft breeze sways
through the tops of palm trees.
I soak in the smell of summer
and seaweed,
long days of light
with nothing needed of me
and nowhere else I would rather be.
The sea is my soul place,
a stage where I swim alone in dreams,
my skin breathing
in the sustenance of salt-laced water.
The ocean knows me
as one of her own,
a sea-child, a dolphin,
a pelican confident to dive
into unsounded depths.
Christened by cleansing breakers,
the beach receives me
to rest on its golden pew.
I sit embraced by the sun,
fingers shifting through mounds
of grains, the tiniest of shells
ascending to the surface,
gifts from Source
solely visible to the grateful eye.
—from book Under the Same Sky
Where I Belonged
In shafts of light on scattered hay
three city-dwelling younger cousins
wait, watching me in admiration
to see if I’ll fly. Out the mouth
of a big red barn, I look dizzyingly down
to a mound of yellow far below.
Only child living on grandfather’s farm,
I had been warned– rope swing
out over a deep-water lake; highway
running in front the house
where farmers drove too fast;
the dangerous woods, not go alone;
cavernous holes in the high hay mow
over concrete floors below.
Never had I found the courage to jump,
but this day, self-appointed guide
to the farm, I yearn to show my cousins
the world where I belong.
In my memory, ultimately, I chickened out.
Nearly fifty years later, my cousin Tim,
spokesperson for his tribe, reminisces,
You did do it! You flew into that pile of hay!
—from book Our Shared Breath
The True You
What you will become
I am not yet entirely sure,
but maybe I can lean into
the broken pieces
not yet laid in place
for the mosaic of you.
You have accepted
the sky’s invitation,
peeled back the golden seal
of a summons
to show up with all six senses
wide awake, seeking out
the necessary insight
to birth your true self
into being.
I hope you take nourishment
from the chalice
of clarity,
get as close to trueness
as colored glass gets
to its leaded junctions—
allow that prism of light,
the true you, to shine through.
—from book Under the Same Sky
