BUILDING THE BUILDING

 

Before the building

is the building,

the work,

the construction,

the architecture

climbing skyward

a piece at a time.

 

Before this,

the hole in the ground,

the ground breaking,

the consecration

of the site itself.

The blessing.

 

May we bless

the building of buildings

no matter the material.

 THE SHRINE

 

The shrine is always there.

It’s right before us,

in every moment.

We either enter or we don’t.

 

When we don’t

it is often because we find fault

with the entrance itself—

with the way the hinges hang,

or the voussoir curves,

or how the keystone hovers

heavy above our heads.

Or even how the light falls

suspiciously upon the threshold.

 

When we make the entrance

and our aversion to it

the reason for not entering,

our souls suffer for it

and the place of worship

we might have come to know

becomes, out of neglect,

a derelict dwelling,

an abandoned shanty.

 

Our own failings, more times than not,

are the entrance. To meet the Buddha

we must pass through them.

COBWEB

 

The early morning light  

filtering through the oak

 

turned the cobweb

hanging there

 

                      invisibly

 

into a shimmering

stitch of silk.

 

It was the only thing to see

in that moment,

 

in the vastness and silence

of the landscape

 

along the winding path,

and they both saw it.

 

Moments of this kind

are so delicate,

 

so fleeting, in a forest

heavy with frost.

FROST

 

In the middle of a wild canyon

I came upon handprints 

on a frost-covered stump.

You left them there 

when I wasn’t looking.

 

I have seen those hands

every day since our walk

in my mind. 

The image of them

continues to open

and warm my heart.

REALITY TV

 

A distant sky

suddenly got closer.

 

A flat screen TV

and its red roses

 

cavort for the one

bachelorette.

 

A pajama party,

giddy under blankets,

 

smacks its fragrant lips.

All the while

 

life moves like

an approaching

 

anniversary, holding

its breath before a candle

 

that burns brighter

as the days grow darker

 

and the pandemic is the norm

we know. A place to settle into.

RIVERBED

 

What was once shrapnel

works its way as diamond

up through a deep alluvial vein

to the surface and into a riverbed

called relationship. This is the site where

the artisanal digging and sifting begins.

THE SCOURGE

 

Yesterday I burned a pot black,

 while steaming beets.

 

All the red-juiced water evaporated

when I wasn’t looking.

 

Was burned into thin air, leaving

the cookware scorched to a crisp.

 

I took steal wool

to the pot’s bottom

 

and scrubbed

my little heart out.

 

I did this on the day

the election results came in.

 

I scrubbed as hard as I could

to remove the scourge for good.