HORSESHOES*

   in memory of

Andrea Gibson

Hanging
heavy 

on a
bone-thin

 limb
are 

six rusted
horseshoes.

Such a strange
 bracelet

for a season
so biting.

Surely, 
the first shoe 

speaks, 
incants 

on behalf
of the rest

when

 it announces 

its queer

 pronouncement of
 
 O-D  L-U-C-K
in bold 

raised 

letters, 

while the G and O 

of good 

are wholly 

hidden 

behind 

the brittlest

branch of all,
that could easily

be hope.
But maybe

it’s not 
a winter twig

obscuring the go

in good,

 but instead 

a pinky-like promise 

fingering 

its way

ever 

deeper 

into the crisp 

sky-blue grip

of the brightening 
light of day.  

*Inspired by the documentary, 

Come See Me in the Good Light

THE SHAPE OF LIFE 

Any moment now

the fruit, plump

ready and ripe,

will fall from

it flimsy perch.

Before it does,

as dusk begins

to dust the valley

behind it 

with darkness,

let’s say thank you

to its simple roundness,

its rustic glow and 

the abundance it balances

on gravity’s back

as if it were 

our own rich life

we were thanking.

And then…let’s let

the sweetness

of this gratitude

allow us 

to suddenly see,

for the first time

perhaps in a long time,

our life as anima mundi, 

an expression of the world’s soul, 

the cosmic force

that is present 

in all nature.

Finally, let’s let the mystery 

and revelation of this recognition 

be the sweet spot in the orchard 

of our seeing and being today.

 

THE SPIRIT OF THE CANVAS

Imagine the sea and sky

are your canvas,

and the clouds and currents

your pigment,

and your brush, your breath

and expanded spirit.

Your desire to serve,

to help and to heal

steps with you

every time you approach 

the easel. When the piece

is done you will know

who you’ve touched

because they will 

thank you as if

you were a captain

or pilot for the journey,

for bringing them,

with such care

and kindness,

safely and buoyantly

back home. 

MIND AT SEA

What gathers 

between sky 

and ocean

might just be 

Mind 

admiring itself

in a mirror 

bigger than 

any thought 

it could ever 

think

to think

SENECA LAKE

Stay with me, please!

Don’t rush on by.

Take your time

to tell me

everything that is

on and in your

heart. I will hear

your grief.

I will hold it.

Let every word

between us be 

as long and as deep

as Seneca Lake.

Touch me 

with more than 

one finger. 

Let’s do nothing

shorthand.

We can move 

like glaciers, if we like.

There’s no need 

to hurry back 

to the goat market. 

The secrets inside 

our flesh will emerge 

when they’re good 

and ready. We aren’t 

stenographers. 

No one is on trial.

There’s nothing

to transcribe or report.

There is only 

your presence

and mine

and the terroir 

and the taste 

of our time 

together.