THE VESSEL

I am not 

the sculptor.

I am the clay,

let’s say,

from which 

forms

a shape 

I’ll call

humility:

the capacity 

to hold life’s 

imperfections

imperfectly.

When I let 

the excess,

that can look like 

pride or humiliation,

fall away 

along with 

the compulsion 

to struggle, 

what’s left is

the giving into

the mystery,

the hands 

I cannot see,

that can make me 

malleable

when I let them.

When I do

their force and grace

creates 

the contours

of a consciousness 

I will carry 

but in no way contain.

LEAVING DODGE

The best we can do 

is to make the attempt.

To bumble our way 

toward some destination 

we’d like to believe 

is a Bethlehem

when Dodge-in-a-dustcloud 

is like the trailer 

we didn’t know 

we were towing 

keeps glinting 

in our rearview mirror.

EARLY WINTER FRUIT

Ripening takes time.

The persimmons in my backyard

are teaching me this:

the yellow-orange 

slowly darkening

with each day,

the limbs drooping

a little more

as the fruit gathers heft

among the green- 

veined leaves.

What I don’t know is

when do I harvest 

these plump orbs, 

pluck them from 

their gangly branches?

And…where else in my life 

is there a ripening  

that deserves my attention

that only a season

like this one can offer

so slowly, so meticulously?

Behind what branch

and leaves, is it hiding? 

PRESENCE

With no trace of the past,

no prior hurt or regret tethered to it,

the present moment came unbidden

borne only of generosity of spirit,

with poetry on the tongue,

and with every part of its message 

behaving as an invitation infused 

with levity, love and light.

Presence has never been so easy

to be with, its spunk and spontaneity 

seeming to say: it's good 

to hear your voice again.

It now hangs in a state of grace, 

hammock-like, waiting to see 

what will fill it next.

ASSISTED LIVING

It is the little vanities 

that tell me 

she has returned.

The way she risked

 

falling just to get 

her bracelet back on; 

the way she stood 

at the kitchen sink

scrubbing her dirty ear rings 

with her gnarled, arthritic hands,

so could have them dangle again

from her dainty lobes;

the way she had to touch up 

her burgundy lipstick 

before going down for dinner

in the dining hall;

and the way she had to find 

her favorite comb 

before going to bed—

the four others she found,

that were more than willing 

to do the job, just won’t do.

None of this mattered

three weeks ago.

There was no energy or interest 

in any of the accoutrement of daily life.

My mother could hardly speak, see or 

leave her hospital bed

after the stroke sent her to 

the ICU one night.

She won’t be going home,

the doctors said, back then.

Skilled nursing will be her life

from here on out.

She showed them.

Home is where the heart is.

And where you keep 

your favorite comb.

POEM

Even now, in

the darkness 

of night, as I 

struggle to

find the words

to make a poem,

the green orbs

I only just discovered

the other day

in my backyard,

are quietly 

tinting toward

the color 

of persimmons

on branches I can

imagine but not see.

THE SPELL

The master carny in charge

watches his mirage

take shape

in the Dust Bowl town.

The Big Top grows taut and high,

is stretched in every direction

as the human curiosities

tug at the canvas seams.

The dry, cracked earth,

the dust storms, are gone. 

The spell is cast.

The Greatest Show On Earth 

is all the eye can see. Culpability 

rids itself of responsibility.

And all are awed and watching

while thirst and hunger 

are in a dream dreaming 

and truth is nothing more 

than a red dust 

caking on the tongue.