Nora

Though I'm not certain I believe
in Heaven anymore --
except the kind we can find right here,
by being present and aware --
if there were a heaven,
and all those things
that we grew up assuming about it
were true,
I imagine they'd have rolled out the red carpet
for Nora;
that all the women who went before
would be waiting at the gates
with roses in their hands,
cheering as she strode through --
this friend to all,
who brought her wit,
her humor, pain, and hope
to everything she wrote --
this gracious soul
who let each of us know
that we were not alone,
that our struggles were hers as well.
I'm imagining her now,
stepping forward,
head held high,
in shoes impeccably glamorous
(and yet, sublimely comfortable --
it is Heaven, after all!)
to receive the Oscars she so deserved:
not best film, or best direction, or best screenplay,
but best friend, best wit;
best sage,
and, yes, best life.

Itching

Like a puppy,
almost blind,
trapped in a Cone of Shame,
I'm desperate to scratch,
to poke at,
to chew on
whatever bug is biting me,
whatever welts
my body is throwing up
in response
to whatever topic it is
that I'm suddenly allergic to.
Worse yet,
I can't seem to sleep for the itching.
Where's the drug
that I can take
to make this go away?
How long before the seasons change
and whatever thought is in the air
matures,
or goes to seed,
freeing me from this
eternal
internal
itching?

A trick of the light

So often,
when I go in search of my camera,
it's not the photograph I thought I saw
but something sitting quietly
beside the caller
that finds its way into my lens --
and brain --
and sows the seeds of invitation:
what was it that really called?
what was it that I really saw?
and how could I have ignored
something so beautiful
and been drawn to something
so mundane?
And what is it that decides
which is beautiful,
and which mundane --

some preconceived notion, perhaps, might tell me
that the echo of a tree
shimmering upon the water below
might have more perceived value
than something built by man?
Or is it just a trick of the light,
a stillness in the sea,
a vacillation in the current
that makes one now stand out,
then fade away as another different reflection
takes its brief shape upon the water;
that in the instant between the call and my response,
some shift occurs:
what was no longer is
or has moved on,
and now I must be present
to some new radiant gift.

I heard my soul

I heard my soul
the other day,
singing in the garden:
one soft wild whistle
danced upon the page
and then subsided into night.
Having heard that tiny
chirp of promise,
I'll listen more intently now;
still the insistent humming
of the bees in my brain,
the murmur of the flowing
in my veins,
to hear, below
that steady shimmer of noise,
the bright clear call
of hope.