(for Fukushima)

I

The earthquake jolts

below the need to conform,

urging me away from shore

toward the wave.

I want to cower, knowing

I will soon dissolve

in a future etched in water.

Just a little boat

and the tic tic

of a diesel motor,

sailing out to sea

toward the wave,

away from what

will be no longer.

 

II

When the land shakes,

the wind rises,

the wave breaks

and the sun cannot be seen

will you find me,

will you still listen?

In a sanctuary

hidden by the thinnest veil

we greet what comes.

 

III

Something lights the sky,

a wealth unmeasured

to guide us through the night

toward mercy

and the kindness

we’ll dance again

upon the bruised earth.

 

IV

In the dark before morning,

before the noise and confusion,

those precious moments

speaking softly

in the thread of connection;

I have not lost you.

 

V

Opening the curtain

a waning quarter moon

brightens the sky

while the stars wheel,

Earth spins with Her Sun

and the soft green of May

slowly rises.

 

Near the sea everything settles
as if memories and people
were affected by the tides
and slowly find their way
to the bottom, resting
along the dark crevasse
beneath the flowing water,
finding a place to feed
from the darkness
that will not be undone,
letting this day be what it is
without the turbulence
of the present or past:
sunlight upon the water,
thick white clouds,
calm upon the sea.

 

 

 

I reach out
over the horizon,
cracked and weakened
by struggle and death
and all that’s fallen.
Daring to raise my eyes
I call out in a bird-like sound,
giving myself to this day,
abandoning desire
for all except you.

 

Before memory,

before violence,

before the damage

and the line that separates,

before ancient stones

and walls beneath the sea

there was awareness

and the love of our ancestors

spoken from the mountain;

before the wave,

before forgetting,

a thin ray of light

awakening the sleep

that is not sleep,

the fold of forgiveness,

the beginning

of all that will remain.