LEAVING

I am

like this 

leaf.

Feeling

the season.

Exposed.

Almost

on fire.

Thin

skinned.

Spread

thin.

All veins.

Nearly 

translucent.

Turning

inward.

Getting 

ready.

To 

let go.

THE DOOR

What is this thing we call a door?
It appears, we open it, walk through,
close it, all in one stride. In an instant
we are on the other side of something.
Just by crossing its threshold we leave
what’s behind behind and step into
what lies ahead, be it a simple errand
or a grand adventure. What if letting go
were like this: swift and easy, an open
and shut case. It’s not. Rarely do we 
cross its threshold quickly, the metal 

strip singing beneath our dancing feet. 

Letting go is not a simple transition. 
Its threshold is more like a long corridor, 
a jetway, you might say, leading to a plane
that's not yet arrived, that’s been delayed 
once or several times. And so there we are 
waiting at the gate, wondering when we will 
depart and if we’ll ever reach our destination.
When the plane finally does come and we’ve 
passed through the cabin door, are seated, 
then soon in air and likely later in mid-flight, 

over who knows what terrain, only then do we 

discover there are no bags at our feet, or in 

the bin above, or even in the cargo hold. To our 

great surprise we realize we are somehow 

now traveling luggage-free.

SCHOOLED

Let the living wonder

within you

be mesmerized

by the minnows

shoaling their silver

beneath the wooden

planked pier. 

Watch them make 

pattern after pattern 

from their schooled light.

Let their movement,

their shimmering beauty

pull you into the limpid lake

as if into a dream.

Stay under and in it

until you become

the movement, the beauty,

and the light.

When lifted up and out

of the undulating waters,

may you emerge not drenched 

and nearly drowned

as some might have feared,

but alert and alive,

pure and proud,

almost transluscent

before the sun—

showing the world

what it looks like

to be a boy

and a body cleansed,

naked of shame.

BEFORE THE FIRES COME

     after David Elliott

Gather and grow.

Gather and grow...

Until every part of you

—bark, branch,

heartwood, and sap—

is bursting with presence,

with a listening

older than the languages

that first began to reach

for something larger

than language itself.

When you are this presence, 

the complete 

embodiment of it,

send all you have gathered

into the fibers and rings 

of your being 

on to the seedlings 

before the fires come.

The secondary succession, 

the forests of the future, 

depend upon it.

EXTINCTION*

Imagine a listening

tons deep and wide.

A listening that hears

for miles and miles and miles.

A listening that breathes

underwater. A listening

when erased

leaves a hush

that can never be filled.

There was just such

a listening, once upon

a time. It lived 

for twenty-seven years

after being discovered.

Then, was hunted 

into oblivion. 

Its name is mute 

in my mouth.

My tongue, 

its dead dialect.

* What was the listening?

THE MISTAKE

When the tool you’ve been carrying

longer than you can remember

is mistaken for

a winnowing shovel,

you will know it is time

to set that tool down for good.

You will know it is time

to let the chaff fall from

the grain of your life.

That it is time to trade in

all your warring 

and wayfaring ways

for a modicum of peace

and time with the ones you love.

Be sure to thank the stranger

who made the mistake.

Be grateful you happened upon them

in a place so far inland

that the place knew nothing of

the sea, boats, or salt.

Be grateful for the stranger’s

poor vision, which was really

a prophecy remembered.

Do all this and then

you can really go home.

THE APOLOGY

Every time

the apology

rose up inside

it came with 

the pronoun “I.”

I’m sorry.

The “I” 

was the problem.

Its very presence

negated the apology

and felt like a sign 

of disrespect.

The “I” introduced

a self that was

separate from the rest.

It stole from the village,

from the one breath,

from the one beating heart,

from the garden.

It tore its precious root

from the grandmother tree. 

The only way

to create harmony,

to reconnect to

the spoked wheel 

of light again

was to say:

Thank you!

Thank you!

Thank you!

Only without the self-

serving “I”

could there be

the possibility

of the altar of “us.”