THE INCONSEQUENTIAL

there is no 

red wheel

barrow, white 

chickens or rain 

water in 

this image

and yet 

so much 

depends upon 

the speed 

of a slug:

the orange 

of the withered 

poppy petal, 

the ominous 

shadow of 

the plant the petal 

fell from,

and the stymied 

stance of the three 

sad pebbles.

had I not 

slowed down enough 

to see this 

inconsequential scene 

of a tiny 

creature in transit 

slithering its slick 

evaporating trail

across 

the vast terrain

of a flagstone 

slab, I might not 

have noticed 

how meticulous 

nature is 

in the way

it arranges 

threshold moments 

everywhere, all the time,

for all its kin

and more-than-human kind.

nor would I have

remembered

William Carlos 

William’s simple, 

yet revolutionary 

poem,

and how it has 

influenced me 

more than 

I ever knew:

how the glaze 

in it taught me 

to see the beauty 

and bravery 

in the everyday 

and in 

every 

living thing.

THE TERRAIN*

Where is the terrain?

Where isn’t it? 

Everything we are

or are not

is a topography

that lives within us

or is mirrored 

outside us,

or is simply its

more-than-human 

self. There is no 

escaping the terrain.

It is an earth we must

befriend. Let us then

walk together

arm in arm

when the evening is spread out

against the sky,

loving who it is we are

and who each other is,

and the ground, 

the blessed ground,

beneath our feet—

a ground that keeps us 

upright and sturdy

instead of falling 

further into the deep

and wondrous Mystery

that is expanding

all the time.

*Please visit my new web site, Reclaim the Terrain, 

and see my upcoming offerings.

This poem was written in celebration of 

the Terrain's two year anniversary of its groundbreaking.

ANOTHER'S TOUCH

I reach out my hand

from the earth of my body

to touch the sentience 

of the world.

When it meets me

as the bark of oak

or the wet and cold

of the shimmering lake

I feel myself met, touched

by another’s touch.

It takes slowing down 

to know this, to feel this:

that the Earth is a presence

always awake, watching, and listening.

It takes slowing down

to remember that

I am the one

who forgets that

the Earth sees me, that it never

looks away, never blinks.

That it never stops 

threading my name

or yours

through birdsong, 

the whispers of leaves,

or the rippling waters.

THE VANISHING

The mountain 
will never move 

as long as the man
chases the image

of himself trying
to move the mountain.

His ministry emerges
in the moment he disappears 

into the mystery 

that is the mountain.

THE TEACHERS

How is it 
that a mighty wound 

can bear to be near

so many blossoms?

Trees

are great teachers:

 they show us

how to hold 

both 

loss and beauty 

easily and equally

at once.

AERIAL

Above and about us

the air is a current

crackling with transmissions

of all kinds—even when

there are no 

wires or clouds

in sight. Spirit is

everywhere

threading through

atmospheres

seen

and unseen.

THE CIGARETTE

When it finally 
happens
when we move 
from head to heart

a swell of emotions

sweeps over us

rushing us

like the tide

to the shore

and we sigh

a great sigh

of release 

and relief.

It is then that

the heart says

wryly to the body:

Was that as good for you

as it was for me?

And, without missing

a beat, the body answers:

Yes. Now! can we have

that cigarette?