The journey to their new world
mired step by slogging step
in the rain soaked bog
feeding ground and sanctuary
to countless birds and fish
to them a sucking pool
of unforgiving mud.
Remembering the defeat
they would later drain
this memory of inadequacy
paving the water course
to be rid of the hindrance.
There are trails to the river
where sand is piled against stone
and the powerful river eddies
in a dark pool of aquamarine.
We carve our names in the sand
knowing the next hard rain will erase us
knowing the hope we seek is yet upstream
and if we are to find our selves
we must learn the way of water.

Unhappy with immovable mass
he remembers water
how wind rises in the south
recalling motion something moves in him
a breath where there was constriction
a relief to the constant pressure.
Those who stand and wait appear foolish
but within there is treasure
of stillness containing the soul
ready to sing out from the hardened cleft
of something deep and joyous
even within stone.

Look into the morning sun
during the first hour
when the brilliant fire
turns light into awareness
of origin, reverence
and the unexpected;
as we join in rising
the day is ours, incense
lifting the weight
on the inborn song
of our hearts.

Old memories stir
like the coal bed of a log fire
fierce heat of distant times
when the circle was intact
and joy unclouded.
We knew we would forget but not
how hard forgetting would become
yet the oil of awakened memory
softens the wounding, easing
our entry into this day, this time
when only love will join us
only the deep well of certainty
water cold and full of solace
the Earth so wedded to our souls
that as we look up She rises.

The wandering soul
one foot before another
moving yet not moved
as if constant motion
would avoid the imprint
of something or someone
to fear or simply avoid
loneliness preferable
to the imagined harness
and though he notices
the sometimes loving
he seeks within hegira
to know the witness
who touches his feet
on the stone lined path
gently lifting the gravity
of his many beliefs
welcoming him long before
he gives himself the gift
of worthiness to be home.

Crows circle the predawn sky
their flock of dark wings
massing impossible turns
pivoting with the certainty
of a thousand feathers
their delight a private joy
before the city’s demand
in the hour of descent.