HAY*

Loping in a grief-soaked cloak
through what feels like

a century of tundra vigils,
dark forest initiatory fires,

and a thousand acres
of banished thought,

a lone pilgrim kisses
the dead along the way -

the ones that don't know 
they're dead yet.

He passes grave diggers
doing their moonlit digging

while screech owls hunt
to the sound of 

unsyncopated shovels.

This man's pilgrimage

is not to reach some
bejeweled mountain palace

but simply to find
a field of freshly cut hay

in the mind and sleep 

of a towheaded boy's

fevered, summer 

dreaming.

*Inspired by an essay by Martin Shaw entitled, The Hawk and the Otherworld

THE BELOVED

Let the body
be the clay,

the red earth.
Add water, then

spin it, knead it 
on the potter's wheel.

See it take shape

in the artist's strong

and supple hands.

See the vessel

swivel and sway,

rise up

under all 

the mindful touch, 

the lifting, the thinning,

the centering.

Inside, another

shape is forming.

In the stillness,

in the quiet,

a beloved 

is being traced

to rest

in the hollow

of a hidden

embrace.

FLIGHT

On its back 
on the ground,

wings pinned

beneath it,

a bird can't fly.

It needs the wind

in its feathers

to take flight.

Earth is not air.

Earth is not air.

LETTING GO

From the arch 

of an arbor

above me, 
from the weave 

of the climbing rose
all around, 

this little one
fell upon my knee.

Its whispered landing
took me

out of the book
I was reading

about the grief
of the Earth.

As I hung suspended
in my hammock-chair

inside this 
vined haven

I wondered:
was this tiny leaf,

this little 
letting go,

a reminder
that I could 

let some small
tightly held

part of myself,
twisting in spirit,

go, as easily as
the Earth sheds

its slender
green surrenderings?

THE COIN TRICK

It moves across the ridges 

of your knuckles 

like a whispered chant

through prayer beads.

It disappears behind 

the sliver of bone 

that is your pinky finger

only to emerge 

from beneath the fleshy

gnome of your thumb.

Again and again 

the silver coin 

appears and disappears,

appears and disappears

from your 

down-turned palm.

You practice this sleight-

of-hand trick mindllessly

from a lichen-covered boulder 

that juts out from a cliff.

From this seated perch—

that feels more like a throne 

than a place to rest—

the Himalayas, ridge 

after rising snow-capped ridge,

stretch out before you

like an ethereal kingdom.

In the near distance, 

in the invisible currents,

spiraling to great heights

and then swooping down

into the depths of the valley below,

are two condors.

The coin continues 

to cross and re-cross

the knuckled ridges 

of your hand, sending

the day’s dazzling light

back towards the great 

circle of the sun. 

All of a sudden, you see

one of the giant birds 

fall away from the other 

and float into the valley 

before you, growing larger 

and larger as it makes 

its descent, seemingly 

in your direction.

Delighted by this sight,

you still the coin, and conceal it

in the cloister  

of your closed hand.

Just then the bird stills itself,

becomes motionless in the sky, 

frozen against

the frozen peaks

behind it. You watch it

swerve backwards and upwards,

climbing and spiraling 

until it rejoins its partner

in high-flight. You begin 

rolling the coin across 

your knuckles again, 

if only to distract yourself

from the disappointment

of not having had the close 

and spectral encounter 

you were hoping for.

The sun’s rays again flair 

and flash off the surface

of the revolving coin 

into ether of sky.

Instantly, the broad winged bird,

arcs away from its partner,

and, for a second time,

drops down, now faster 

than before, taking clear aim,

and dives toward its target.

It is upon you before you know it,

and has subsumed you into its gaze,

has feathered you inside 

its immense shadow.

You and your shining coin,

lucid and dreaming, 

are airborne and ascending, spiraling

into the crystalline air.

Maybe we are all dreaming

this dream in one form or another

or are engaged with 

some kind sleight-of-hand trick

all because we are wanting 

to make contact 

with our own shimmer and shine,

our own divinity,

in the hope that that contact

will bring us into communion

with a spirit greater than

ourselves, a spirit that is 

more-than-human. Maybe that is 

the real magic we are after.

*Inspired by David Abrams’s book, The Spell of the Sensuous

THE LAMENT

You have no way 

of knowing

how you got here.

You have no map

to verify the terrain

that is now behind you.

Did you climb mountains,

cross rivers in a canoe?

All you have is 

what’s before you now:

an old growth redwood,

the morning mist,

and the shimmering 

green ferns 

up to your neck.

You are on your knees 

in the mud and weeping.

The feathered fronds, 

their touch, and the sight 

of them bejeweled in dew,

opens you to

a lament that has been 

incubating inside you,

opens a portal erased 

of any fear and around which 

no one is peddling certainty.

It is safe to walk through.

And you do.

You feel a great wheel 

turning around a center.

Your voice is that center.

Your song is the turning.

Something is wanting 

to move through you.

Let it. Let it pass through.

The mountains, the rivers, 

the trees are waiting 

to hear your inconsolable song.

 PILGRIMAGE

I clambered down 

the back stairs 

of my 

deck today

and was immediately 

reminded

that every step we take

is a stride

inside

one kind 

of pilgrimage

or another.

We are always

on our way 

to somewhere,

with or without

faith, with

or without

hope, with 

or without

fear—the procession

of gravel

made this poignantly clear,

as it paraded its way

across a dessert

of flagstone.