HOUSES CLOSE BY

Apart like

stars or atoms, 

notes 

in a fugue.

Like voices 

held      in silence,

in the 

expanse

splayed      between

the in-between.

These houses

 might as well 

be minds

trying 

not to try 

to think, speak.

What do they     hear

         in their      separate 

 confidences          

among the       walls 

 and          windows

ceilings and doors,

tables and chairs,

inside         all the insides 

                in their       distances,

            surrounded by

 

all that’s 

outside and gathering

                in the space 

 around them?

  Is it hope, trust, 

      peace.       A prayer?

   Or simply       a breath 

                breathing 

                 its way 

back home?

 THE LION’S LULLABY

Sit with it.

Be with it.

Look into its 

anguished eyes.

Do not flinch.

This will be 

the hardest thing 

you will ever do.

Eventually, it will get 

drowsy, then drop 

off to sleep.

Be with it also

as it sleeps.

The next hardest thing 

you will do will be to 

know what to do 

knowing that this lion 

of shame is asleep

inside you and will 

wake soon.

When it does, 

remember … the eyes.

Stay with the eyes.

This is the practice.

Presence is 

the lion’s lullaby.

TRUST

Use what 

you cannot

 

control 

or see

to power you 

on your voyage.

Hoist 

your sail high.

See the canvas 

swell and billow.

Trust

the wind.

Before that 

you must

trust 

in trust,

which might be 

even more

invisible than 

air itself.

 

THE INVITATION

You can fasten

feathers to it.

Hear the air 

riffle through

its wings

as it takes flight.

Imagine it

carries you,

buoys you 

up and out of

the grinding

mind of time,

where the

days, the hours, 

and minutes 

aren’t counting

themselves down 

or arcing 

or spiraling

in one direction

or another

toward some

weighty destination.

There is only

the unboundedness 

of being, 

the now

that’s underneath you

and all around you

like a wondrous 

altitude or wind. 

The all of everything

is here. This is 

the invitation

you’ve been invited

into as a breath 

that’s airborne.

What are you 

waiting for?

Drop into 

this moment, 

the moment 

before you.

Don’t let the fear 

of falling 

keep you 

from flying.

Say yes 

to this most

beautiful bird.

     ROPE 

I take the braided strands

           and unwind them 

    from one another 

               so rope is 

      no longer a tie 

           that’s bound up 

      in its own binding 

   cut off from 

           the intricacy 

        and intimacy

             once woven 

            within its

                weave. 

                    Now free          from its 

             own bondage         no one would 

                             dare         call rope 

       twisted, tortured         or entangled.

ESTUARY

framed against 

a sinuous embrace, 

the red hand holds  

up its questions

before the day:

Might my estuary 

be the tides 

and streams

pointing

to a hidden river

and its vascularity

of light?

Is that what is meant

by leaf?

THE IRIS

          after Joan Mitchell

Maybe all the commotion,

all the contrasting color, 

 

the layering,

and the brushwork

swirling 

within this cosmos 

and gathered 

near the center,

like in so many 

of her other creations...

maybe all this is really 

an invitation, a come hither call.

When I finally heard it 

and felt it 

like a centripetal supplication,

I stepped closer.

And closer still. 

And when I could go no further

without crossing a boundary–

the curatorial line on the gallery floor–

I took out my phone of all things,

as if this overture, 

this transgressional gesture, 

might enable me  

to reach her, make

the deeper contact

I desired. 

But it was the camera 

I was after,

the aperture inside. 

It would allow me

to magnify her touch, her true genius. 

And so when I finally zoomed into

the splatter and push 

of so much color

and creativity

all the chaos fell away 

and there was only beauty.

It was then that I opened 

and found the framing 

and composition

within the composition 

I could love without restraint.

It was then I felt her most fully

and became a witness, I believe,

to the moment, it seemed, 

when grace itself, 

in the abstract, was invented.

The moment when,  

with a splash of lavender 

and a calligraphic sweep,

the idea of flower was formed.

The moment when blossom

attached itself to stem for the first time.

And it was this flower, this iris, the artist

offered me–as if to promise 

that I would one day make

my own masterpiece

with the touch, beauty, and love

of another.