Swimming to the Bottom

The first slap of cold; the brilliance
of light compresses into the box of winter made smaller each day until all of my focus
is buried inside the most delicate
tissue within the upper left quadrant
of this vessel I call body.

Here I am forced to retreat without words
and observe each tear and unraveling
of the petals that soak this chamber
with the vulnerability of everything human.Here I am required to simply breathe, sigh and swim to the bottom.

But today the light has returned
for a few hours to stain
the part of me that thought
it had to surrender to the sad note
of anything less than brilliance.
Today I bury my hands in the dead vines
in front of the house and pull them
from the half frozen earth
with the passion of a bride ravaging
her first beloved.

Now I must find the soft cloth
in the cupboard under the sink and wipe the haze from my favorite window.
I sprinkle the last scarlet petals floating
in the crystal vase next to my bed
between the faded sheets
and stain my dreams with the gift
of being happy for all happiness.

HEAVENLY COMING APART

The sky is sublime gray.
Buds of the narrow branches are still
memory. All sentient Light diffused
with Deep Inside.
The shroud is intimate. It whispers
to the holy threads within
everything.
Listen to the stone.
It whispers years of being.
The purpose of no-purpose
has become its poem.
Inside the appearance of density
emptiness waits.
It wants to lick our cravings.
Stretch us until we are fluid as sky.
When we see with the eyes of God
all skin becomes the first light.
No-thing contains
it does not kill each other
it boasts no heritage.
Nameless.
Christen it deeper than deep.
When our spirit is broken
from years of holding
there is nothing to do
this heavenly coming apart.
Float on the breath of body-nobody
the pain of control has had its way
I am crushed and coming apart.
A hundred fragments striking the light
we are coming apart.
A thousand seeds lifting to the wind
everything coming apart.
I give away scar, word, history, stone,
brightness, brightness
Nothing is secret
everything brightness
I speak from Now…

EARTH BIRDS

Frayed wings of skirts climb toward
the moon hollow, toward hope hanging
on the thread of a sparkless sky.
Lost in the Banyan, the swallow
grieves for the golden
bough, sky-nymph longing
for the exhilaration of sadness,
for mother sky’s vaulted, veinless
arms. Yesterday’s mourning;
last chance for supplication.
Are we skyward:
can we be taught in a short breath
the truth of wings?
The moon flies up and down,
feet crusted with bagworms
and dying mud. Tiny wings
tattoo between shoulders:
blades rending the weightlessness
of ribs and lungs.
Pull the dry skirts over my head.
Bare legs like silver snakes
circle the moonlight. Wings
are footprints falling upward.
Why do we pretend to be bodies?
Bone, blood, fluid not contained
by skin: We are earth-birds
in the unscrubbed sky.
Pull the dead skirts up over my head.
The rains will come tomorrow.
We will drink
the sky.

published in Friction Magazine, 2000

SILENCE

After the verdant thrust of summer:
scraggly brown,
the explicit vivacity of life
preparing for its inward pull.
Somehow the pink geraniums
in the flower box
have completely disappeared.
The petunias resign
to the frailty of vines stretching
towards sun’s last fingers.
I have a picture of you
in my head.
My fingers still want damp
soil with all its vitamins
and insignificant creatures
humming the miniature song
that never goes away.
The hosta’s broad leaves
bleach into corn husks
and decaying lace.
My picture curls its edges,
subsides into dull yellow
like old photos dislodged
from their little black triangles
in a broken-down family album.
Soon it will be time
for the long walk between
shadow and sleep.
The grief of a body that knows
it must succumb:
the hand of winter waiting to spread
its exquisite silence.

CURVING

after Two Calla Lilies on Pink by Georgia O’Keefe

published in the Best Love Poems of Stirring 2002