A beach in winter

Waves of Godness
lapping at cold silence;
a chill gray reredos of sky
frames the play of dark and light;
the land a somber altar
to presence,
and to absence.
A curve of wave
slips along the sand
from me to you,
tracing the kitestring
of divine connection
on which our vision slides.
One key ignites us both, I do believe:
sweet mysteries,
white sparks,
flaring down the edges.
Stop -- and breathe salt-scented air;
watch the hooded mergansers
tip in and out,
sipping from the cup.

Ode to a Classic

Here's where the shift began,
in a dream
of WYSIWYG and Wozniak;
of color,
and intuition,
of art and child's play;
a fluid welling up,
a torrent of new ideas spilling over into a new space
exploding with animation, imagination;

lava, contagious and communicable as laughter
gushing right-brainedly
from this left brain province
onto a new desk
populated with dancing mice
and smiling emoticons
beaming us up, Scottie,
from mere intelligence into life itself.




* * *

Peter's Lament

It's a bit tippy up here --
especially when the seas get choppy --
and watching for new fish,
poised to encircle the net,
waiting for that next opportunity to reel them in...

Well,
frankly,
it's exhausting.
So I'm grateful for winters,
though dragging this boat up onto the beach
can be a fearsome struggle;
glad for the rest;
eager,
come spring,
to set out again.

What do you mean, this is an outmoded activity?
You're leaving me here to rot?
I dare you to find a more efficient gathering mechanism.
What, no one eats fish anymore?


Oh.
There AREN'T any fish anymore.
I see.

* * *

"Grandpa tells me fishing is not about what you take from the water.
It's about what you give to the silence." -- Susan Wiggs, The Winter Lodge

After

Piecing together a life,
after it has been broken open,
finding the stable background fabric,
waiting for the bursts of color to return,
cherishing those neutral moments,
the steady progression of simple things:
a cup of coffee,
the birds singing on the wire,
the quiet crunch of sand, or leaves, underfoot,
understanding the importance of contrast,
light,
dark,
gray -- all working together
in patterns best seen from a distance.

Somehow I understand it will all fit together.

But these days all I can see is that really dark patch in the corner...

tell me it doesn't look like future;
tell me that's not where this is headed.

Find me another place to stand.




* * *

Journey's end

Like the aging husband
who looks at his wife
and only sees the woman she once was,
I look at you and remember:
that sense of adventure,
my daughters dancing on your deck in rough waters;
the fresh scent of the fog,
the sound of the horn,
the smiles of recognition from the ferry hands;
the sweet taste of belonging.




Yes, those were stormy times,
but you,
my dear beloved and steadfast companion,
held stable through it all.
Take my hand, love;
we'll embark on this last journey together.




* * *

Knitting into spring

Numbed by winter's cold and dark,
breathe through the chill frost
and feel the color seep back in.

Reach down into the dirt,
dig through the frozen earth
and let the light well up,
crystals melting in the slow warming.

As you knit
the colored pattern --
trees, fields, earth and sky --
watch for the silver skein,
that numinous thread that weaves all life --
light or dark,
high or deep,
narrow, wide;
all opposites together.





* * *

Mixed emotions

Listening,
torn like paper
along the cut already scored
I heard you speak of Word;
heard, too,
that deeper call to phrase and frame
to cage this tiger in a cardboard box
from which I long to leap like flame,
burning through to the essence;
burning away all that comes between
Word and me
burning like that crazy bush,
full of light, but,
please,
not consumed.




* * *