Born to douse the landscape

How would it feel,
I wonder,
to be a member
of this fringe group,
to stand together,
face into the wind,
sheltered by these glowing petals,
knowing
you were born to dance;
born to toss your head
and douse the landscape
with golden dust;
to feed the bees
and pollinate the world
with beauty?



* * *

Cradled in the Now

Compose yourself
and stand
before the Now;
view the richness
pouring
into this vast
and deepening
moment.
Hold your breath,
and, awestruck,
beam like sun
your radiant blessing
here upon the Now.
Watch
and wait,
not for what will be
but for that
which has already emerged
and lies before you
cradled in the Now.


* * *

The house within a house

Some of us are lucky enough
to have a house within a house;
a home within ourselves
that replicates and shelters
all the small lost parts of ourselves
that need to rest, or dream
or weep in privacy.
And then there are the ones
whose lost selves sleep
beside abandoned fences,
in parking lots,
or on benches;
huddled under rags
against the cold,
their precious few belongings stored
in plastic bags
that lean against the cars.


* * *

A veiled separation

What if no one's inside
looking out?
What if this boat
careening toward me
isn't being driven?
Can I,
instead of screaming
and shaking fists,
stop a moment
to notice how thin,
how perfect the veil
that separates you from me?
The beauty -- neither mine nor yours --
that simply is?


* * *

Monsters at the door

Though Halloween
has come and gone,
the monsters linger at the door;
the witch of worry
flutters still
beside the kitchen window;
the skeleton
of bare bones budgeting
flaps lightly in the wind.
Some part of me is quivering
at the winter still to come,
but the moonlight poured
through my window last night,
the sun is dusting
the mountains with morning blush,
and the ducks are laughing
happily
in the lagoon.
And so I lay my fears aside
and revel
in the sweet, salt-scented air.


* * *

Hanging on for dear life

We tend to forget
how porous
these boundaries are --
you know the ones:
the shiny ones,
that keep us from taking the leap
into the freezing
sea of becoming.
Amazing,
isn't it,
that we can see the other side
yet be prevented
from falling off the edge.
This boat is in motion.
The sea is receding fast,
and a new shore is approaching.
Hold on,
trust,
feel the wind in your hair
and know
that I Am.


* * *

Behind the face

Who is it
that erases you,
that having pasted you to a wall
then peels you off haphazardly
as if you'd never been?
What face
hidden behind false words
waits and watches
for the moment
then catches
that edge
-- you know,
the one that always sticks out
wherever you go --
and pulls,
ripping you from the known
and the future
and the plans
back into Now?
How can we find the strength
to love those fingernails?


* * *