RIPPLES

A question

asked simply,

plainly, in a room

full of pain,

can land

like a stone

in still waters.

The ripples 

that follow

are the voices

ready to finally speak

through long-held 

silences, silences

that protected nothing

but only kept secrets 

secret and safety unsafe.

HANDS FREE

Take your hands 
off the wheel,
so the circle

can be a circle

again and free

of your meddling

grip, so the road

can be a path

that contains

all directions

at once 

and what is

carrying you

forward - yes, 

forward - can be

a transport

you can't control,

that you simply

must trust

is taking you

to where you need

to go and at

the speed necessary

for the journey

you're on. Don't

be surprised

once your hands

are free, if 

a red-breasted 

sparrow comes

tapping

at your passenger-

side window

chirping its

seasoned song.

This won't be

any ordinary sparrow,

though. It will be 

an ancestor

coming to you

with a message: I am 

here, beside you, son.

I will be your guide,

if you let me.

I have wings,

yes wings, for

the both of us, 

so long as

you keep

your hands free

of the wheel.

FLUTE

You are a branch

waiting to be played,

waiting to have a breath

blown through you.

Before this 

can happen

Spirit must first

hollow you out

with Time

and Woodpecker

must peck you

full of holes

and then Lightning 

must cleave you 

from Tree

and drop you 

to the ground 

broken and burning.

There you will wait,

cooling in the dirt,

for a pilgrim

to find you.

One day 

one will come

and just when 

they pick you up

a songbird

will fly by 

singing. The pilgrim 

will think: Did the branch

in my hands

make that sound? 

Let me try 

to make it sing

again. And so,

the pilgrim 

will close their eyes 

and pray 

across the holes 

in the branch. 

They will pray 

for the song 

to return.

And it does,

but now without 

the bird.

What are you 

waiting for? 

Pick yourself up 

and play.

Only you 

can sing the song

you are here 

to sing.

You are the branch

and the wayfarer, both.

WINTER LAKE

Beneath the frozen lake
is a cathedral,

its roof shimmering

in the frosted, golden light.

Fall through the ice,

my darling, fall through. 

The opposite

of drowning

awaits you there

in the underneath.

Your falling

will be the light,

your falling will be

what shatters 

the chapel

into a new shape,

into a new kind

of worship

that you will need

to make the altar 

that only you can make

from the winter lake.

REGRET

I imagine 
one day 

the heft 
in my heart

will fall
like blossoms 

to the ground:
a trail of white

 resting 

in a swatch

of winter light.

The browning 

petals...

nothing more than

 the weight's regret 

for the harm

the carrying

caused.

LIVING MYTH*

I want the wild animal
not the pelt,

the mystery

not the allegory.

I want to hear 

the story spoken

not read from

the pages of 

a dog-earred book.

Myth knows 

what it is.

It doesn't need

us to tell it

how wily 

it can be or

how it doesn't

play nice, now 

and then.

It knows it is

the dreamer

and not the dream.

Yes, it is the one

that left snow prints

in the sand. 

It is the one

that moved 

from village to village,

from mouth to mouth

century after century

taking us from rupture

to rapture, from terror

to transformation,

from grit to wonder

again and again and 

again. Myth is our most 

treasured possession,

our best worn-out

hand-me-down.

It moves us from

seeing to beholding.

It lures us into 

and out of time.

And, when we

are lonely

it will urge us

to trade in our I 

for a We, so a bigger

story will work us.

It returns us to

the wide and wilder 

world of soul

that lives outside us

in the mountains,

in the birdsong, 

in the rivers

and tides. 

Everything 

out there is 

what tells us 

who we really are 

in here, in our 

secret inside flesh.

In the mud and breath

within our bones.

*Inspired by Martin Shaw's, Liturgies of the Wild

HONEY IN THE HOLLOW

Bear's been here.

He found 

the honey
in the hollow.

He is resting now

in his cave

of introspection.

The truth

of what he knows

moves through him

like a creek

cascading

through a forest

or into the eye

of Dreaming

itself.

Bear's hunger

is slowly filling

with silence,

a silence

as large as a lodge

of golden light.