Hand, Rock and Moss

{In celebration of National Poetry Month, I’ll be posting a poem each weekday through the rest of April, and I invite you to join me!  Leave a link to your poem of the day in the comments section below.}

Hand, rock and moss, you

Show me again: each part of

This world is alive

 

Beyond Loneliness

{In celebration of National Poetry Month, I’ll be posting a poem each weekday through the rest of April, and I invite you to join me!  Leave a link to your poem of the day in the comments section below.}

P1040963

Make a poem of silence

empty it into your heart–

by which I mean, let your heart be empty

beyond loneliness

We all have space inside us

never meant to be filled

The Language of Wind

{In celebration of National Poetry Month, I’ll be posting a poem each weekday through the rest of April, and I invite you to join me!  Leave a link to your poem of the day in the comments section below.}

Flight

I.

This is what I know:

All energy is

Wild

All bodies are

Energy

Let yourself

unravel

Become the

howling moon

Learn the language

of the wind

II.

Some creatures can only

be seen in

darkness.

Go to them

Take your hunger

Your open mouth

Your heartache

Walk into the

darkness

Discover the song

of your soul

III.

We all have spirits—

Stone and Rivers,

Fox and Snakes

Reveal Yours

The wind is waiting

to lift your song

to tousle it in peoples’ hair

to weave it among needled branches of pine

to whistle it across the seas

IV.

Remember this—

You are of bedrock &

mountain streams

Still and flowing

At once

The wind was there

at your birth,

blew into you,

became your first inhale

Root into the Earth

Tumble in the water

Exhale and set a gust

twirling around the world

What Cannot Be Said

{In celebration of National Poetry Month, I’ll be posting a poem each weekday through the rest of April, and I invite you to join me!  Leave a link to your poem of the day in the comments section below.}

Some questions cannot be answered in words:

Why are you alive?

We can say: because my parents made it so

We can say: to make the world a better place

But there is something more

that can only be felt:

the wind tugging at your limbs, whispering in your ears

the song of air

the rhythm of water tumbling

the immediacy of a pumping heart

dancing the body into freedom

joy

The Gathering Light

{In celebration of National Poetry Month, I’ll be posting a poem each weekday through the rest of April, and I invite you to join me!  Leave a link to your poem of the day in the comments section below.}

Sheep no longer wake us at night

with the possibility of birth or death

This spring it is birdsong that trills the alarm,

pronouncing dawn and sun and the possibility

of thaw, of swelling rivers and tunneling worms.

Tools have taken over the sheep barn

where lambs once fell into the world

sticky and red, fumbling on knobby knees to the udder.

I can almost smell them, lanolin thick fleece flecked with hay,

though it’s a been a year, and tractor fuel faintly wafts through the air

Not all life is born in spring, but we don’t say this

We push away the memory of a night we slept too long,

when labor stalled and horn buds caught at the opening–

no one tells us that birth is full of suffering, but shepherds

learn from a ewe’s wailing song of loss.

New life heals lost life; that ewe gave birth the following spring

to a healthy set of twins, but I hung up my shepherd’s cane, and

call myself a gardener now,

enamored still with birth: the softening seed shell,

the unfurling sprout, the push through soil and stretch toward sun.

Struggle hasn’t left, but look how spring emboldens us into birth:

green buds explode across hillsides, water swells in valleys,

the gathering light holds us

through the suffering of transformation

as we are born into a new season.

Deva with Acorn, our first lamb
Deva with Acorn, our first lamb

Spring Haiku

{In celebration of National Poetry Month, I’ll be posting a poem each weekday through the rest of April, and I invite you to join me!  Leave a link to your poem of the day in the comments section below.}

Birdsong and snowmelt

water spills, wings rush, we break

open like seeds unfurling

Resina Calendula

For the Birds

I used to care
about proper grammar–
well vs. good
I vs. me–
but now, what does it matter?
I know what you mean.
There are already
so many rules
what shackles need to be
on expression?
None!
Sometimes, when I hear
birdsong in the morning
it strikes me that I don’t know
what they are saying,
but I feel their happiness.
That’s all we’re really after,
isn’t it?
To share with each other
our heart’s fire
be it sadness, or anger,
or expounding joy.
 
joy
joy

Mornings are Quiet, Time is Infinite

I came to Maine thinking I’d write everyday.  I imagined quiet early mornings, infinite time, creativity pouring out of my fingertips.

We leave tomorrow, and what can I tell you?

The mornings have been quiet, though many I’ve spent with an early-rising one-year-old.

Time, as always, is infinite, though our days may fill up and trick us into thinking it is not.

And creativity?  My fingertips buzz, my chest wells, my mind swirls, and words still come slowly.  I remember that half of the creative process is staring into space.  A wooded lake, trees reflecting in the water, white pines rising on the shore, and in the foreground a baby crawling determinedly in circles: this is the scene filling my eyes as I stare.

And this is what I’ve learned, again: mornings are quiet, time is infinite, and creativity is within me.  It’s up to me to wake up, to be present, to pick up the pen and pour words onto the page.

 

balance
this way: cairn along a Maine trail

 

When the Grasshopper Leaps

Some mornings I leave the farm
for the simple pleasure
of being alone–
to sit by myself
and feel the texture of a smile
across my face
 
What is pleasure worth
if it is missed?
We move so quickly on the farm
Sometimes I miss
the curl of a leaf holding water,
the emerald, shining body
of a grasshopper.
Sometimes I forget even
what breathing is.
 
Then the grasshopper leaps
tilting over the leaf,
and water splashes me awake.
I sit, caught for a moment,
breath suspended,
before releasing
in the exhale.
 
What I’ve learned from it all is this:
The wind wants to wrap its arms around us
and dance to the clicking song of crickets.
When the invitation comes, say “Yes!”
This world is beauty
trying to shake us awake
Let yourself be caught.
 
summer bouquet

One More Moment

Fog lifts slowly today; by 9:30 we are still an island on the hill, the mountains across the valley hidden from view. An owl quietly calls hoo hoo hoo, while song birds converse among branches. More rain is on its way, but for now, despite the buzz of crickets in the field, there is a stillness in the air that lends itself to moving slow. So I sit here, eating a late breakfast after dropping Waylon off at Nana’s, and will soon join Edge trellising the tomatoes. But before I go: one more sip of chai, one more moment in this soft morning. One more moment before it evaporates and lifts away…