Mas Poesia

I've just returned from an insanely amazing trip to Lake Tahoe. Highlights: Love. Yoga. Music. Sunshine. My souvenir:

Summer Hymn 

In the pyres of snow-worn rocks,

a simple alter presents itself:

Sun-warmed stoned, soft

blankets of moss, water falling

from who-knows-where,

from a winter 

who-knows-how-long-

ago.  

What else is there?

What more is necessary to recognize 

the need for celebration?

Praise in the movement of the stream.

Praise in the birdsongs.

Praise in the too-blue sky and 

the green trees. 

Praise! 

And don't get me started on

the wildflowers--

the three brave ones

that grew, like a miracle,

from a crack in the rock. 

So small! So determined to live,

despite all that coarseness and

roughness,

Each unlikely, vibrant petal

respiring softly,

as it rose towards light

sighing,

Thank you,

thank you,

thank you,

thank you.

Life-speed ahead

The last month and a half has been an inspirational one, filled with many new opportunities to teach, to learn, to grow, and most importantly to love. Although I haven't been logging as many hours onto the computer, I have been writing. Here's a little taste of where I am now:

And Other Lightness

1. 

Rain hangs heavy

all day

until a great shift splits

clouds, and splinters of sun

break all of us wide open 

at four in the afternoon.

2.

A silk ribbon of fog

slips like a veil 

across the eyes of evening--

scatters and refracts the glow 

from softly illumined windows.

 

3. 

Fireflies, like fallen constellations,

flashing in the hushed galaxies of grass,

circle in unseen orbits. 

4.

An oven burns, and the

long work of turning 

love to nourishment creates space 

for ceremony in busy kitchens.

5.

A common table transforms

into alter, with candles lit for communion, 

as gently emptied bellies are waiting 

to be filled.

6. 

The last trace of Day

drifts from her long post as guardian,

interrupting such stillness 

only to invite the stars 

into the subtle spread of night.

7. 

Later, in the quiet hours,

in the undeniable darkness,

with senses sharpened to all small miracles,

she sings and spins and asks and prays,

Is there anything but light?