MIGRATION

As it flew across

the rose-colored sky

toward the tall trees

that lined the river,

its large, white wings

looked like a bone

breaking and mending,

breaking and mending

as it climbed into

the liminal light.

Suddenly, it disappeared

into the veil of a lone cloud,

the bone breaking 

one last time.

My body took a breath…

and then I imagined 

the creature landing

in its perch

with wings outstretched

and flapping

somewhere 

on the other side

finding its balance

on the bouncing branch, 

while the tree beneath it,

its temporary home,

let go of the last 

of its autumn leaves. 

LOOKING 

Just there 
in the grass,

a fallen leaf. Rust 

against green

baking 
in the sun.

But then 
the autumn edges

 taunt me 

into seeing 

something

that is not tree.

The trace of a face.
Something animal.

The minute I see it 
the leaf is gone. 

All that remains 

is the wink

and the ears 

at attention. 

The fox is now 

the one looking.

A MYSTIC IN THE WOODS

Michelangelo saw

figures in blocks

of marble.

Sculpting, for him,

was a kind of

rescue mission,

a freeing 

of prisoners

from rock.

I went walking

in the woods

the other day

and came 

upon a tree.

It was like seeing

a mystic lost

in meditation,

their arms

united inside

large monastic

sleeves, their head

down, while

the universe spun

its magnificent circles

between the bark

of belly and bowed

crown.

I am not Michelangelo,

and the tree

is not 

marble,

so there was 

nothing

to free.

There was only

the contemplation

I was left with:

the universe

is in me 

rooted and ready

to make wider 

and wider rings.

NOTHING LIKE A LAKE

On a walk in a Pennsylvania woods

I came upon a lake 

that at first glance 

looked nothing like a lake.

 

There was no sense 

of water anywhere. Only 

a density of indeterminate depth—

and the glaze of a mess and murk 

stretching in every direction 

in the stillness.

Not until I reached the end of the pier

did I see what I couldn’t see 

before: a thick sheen 

of flowerless lily pads.

This was the mesh 

that made up the horizon.

It struck me as I stood there 

looking down, that it is our job 

when it comes to the ego

to remove all the mess and murk 

from its surface.

Only then can the eye of the self

reflect the eye of the sky and clouds.

THE TAVERN

It lies at a crossroad

between dusk and dawn,

drunkenness and drought,

gluttony and famine,

between what’s known

and what’s not,

between disillusionment

and amazement,

desire and death,

dreaming and the 

moment bleeding 

beneath our bare 

and bunioned feet. 

It’s as spacious 

as an open field

and has on tap

only the purest tonics

to clear our manic minds 

and to mend the

rankles and the ruptures 

that keep scalding our

breaking broken hearts.

All are welcome

at this ramshackle road stop 

but most only look in 

as they pass by, never taking

their saved-seat

at the long-wide table

in the back corner

framed by the glaze 

of the moonlit window

where the sessions 

never end and the trio 

keeps playing reel after reel, 

the endless variations on 

the mystery of love and loss

that lilt like lightning bugs

inside the incandescence 

of an ancient Irish air.

IN RELIEF

Sometimes 

when I let 

curiosity lead 

the way 

and I lift 

the stones 

of fear from

my path 

I find that

underneath 

the weight 

of what was there 

is a space-holding, 

a holy ground:

the surrounding 

and subtle presence 

of Love's 

loamy embrace.

STILL LIFE 

Nature just
throws down
 its forms 
wllly-nilly:
 branches,
pinecones, 
needles 
and leaves.

Nothing, though,

in this wild terrain

is lost or discarded.

It is simply

re-arranged.

Though random

the array,

the textures, shapes

and colors of these 

earth-scraps lie

next to each other

with the grace and beauty

of any still life.

What if we are

like these stray bits of

branch, seed and leaf?

What if we are not

 a season's

scattered debris

but are merely 

nestled within a nest

we have yet to sense or see?

What if everything

about our lives is

as it should be...

and is exactly where

the deft hand of 

an invisible Artist

meant to put it?