The tide is pulling
in a broad sweep
of deep water,
continents slipping
toward a sea
hungry for the mountain
and all that lives
on green land,
wanting our memory,
our love for the shore,
to release ourselves
like the fathomless ocean
racing with abandon
into the arms of the night.

Who doesn’t like the story
of heroes returned from war
with golden plunder
yet I’m living in the village
left behind, damaged,
barely able to continue,
the body’s anguish
through simple tasks,
the faltering step
of bone on bone
with muscles stuck,
healing slower
than a winter night.
Strange the certainty
as time shambles along
of what is knitting
and what remains,
present in the wound,
not feigning acceptance
but companion to the suffering,
the awkward steps
of something foreign
buried in the muscle
yet moving, because
what lives within
urges through the dark,
feeling without seeing
what waits beyond
as life breaks surface
into the sudden shock of daylight.

Womb of Earth

What rests in darkness
rises from the womb of earth,
the seed of creation alive
crown first, arms softly folded,
determined to breathe and come forth
through the trials of becoming,
the promise born again and again.

***

By the Gravity of Grief

The rituals are small, unnoticed
crafted with fallen branches
and shells from the sea,
time allowed to stop
with animal reverence,
breathing in the air of new leaves,
warmth rising from the ground,
remembering all we’ve lost
as the desire to go forward
is slowed by the gravity of grief.

***

Carpet of Joy

As winter gives way
winds from the north shift,
the air begins to warm
and earth turns light brown
while the tiniest green shoots
rise like newborn hair
covering the land
with the color of awakening.

***

Pulsing with Wonder

Quiet and unmoving
the earth held peace
like a new born,
close and swaddled
with soft leaves,
listening to each breath
with desire only
for heartbeat,
the air so still
it seemed thick,
the sea laid down
in a slow ebb,
the birth awaited,
anticipated so long,
pulsing with wonder
in the green of new life.

Deeper we must go
through the hard crust
of all we remember,
below the waves
disturbed and roiling,
down below
where desire softens,
breath steadies,
who we are
and yet becoming
open to the quiet
aloneness of life,
beyond prayer,
beyond belief,
following once more
the unmarked way.

She speaks about what’s passing
and the travail to come,
the devouring force
come full upon its tail
while silent ones
iron bound to gratitude
let another skin slip,
daring to stand still
while the wave rises
to reclaim the earth
in yellow buds,
a spring smile
on the old firs
as raptors circle,
green floods burst
and the whole earth
sings.

When I awoke
the wind had come about
with a bright moon shining,
the sea racing south
on the wind driven ebb.
The fierce flow of energy
traced on the waves
like a dance of spirits
in love with the night
and all things living,
while the people slept
and the world was free
to be what she wanted.