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?

 CREATING A CLEARING

Dense 

with dead wood.

Limbs

so sharp

they could gouge

out any eye - 

or tear the flesh

from the neck 

and arms

if one tried

to walk through

its impenetrable

tangle. This was

the kind of thicket

that got worked

today. With long

-handled loppers,

bow saws,

and bare hands,

branch after branch

came down,

all of it then

gathered into heaps

of dry debris

that got

 hauled away -

like the unwanted

bones that kept

a bitter heart

in the dark.

When we meditate,

when we breathe

into the thicket 

inside, we create

a clearing, a space

we can easily enter

like the one that got

made today.

Havens like this

welcome us,

big-bellied 

and bright,

like Buddhas 

into the light.

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.