The world can crash on shore
like a storm pushed tide,
water roiled, full of silt
and clawing voices
from the wind fed water,
then a mother and father
lose their son
and everything stops,
grief stronger than the ocean
pulling us into the deep,
the old voice before pride
calling us to remember
our brief time,
what we treasure
and all we must let go.

The sea drums slowly upon the shore
in a steady pulse thrown down
on the resting beach,
the sound lifted from the sand
to the shale and green tree canopy
spread over the narrow strip
of mountain above water,
a sea message sent
to the center of the earth
with a returning song
of darkness to light,
root and rock’s calling
to the salt sea womb,
changing, changing,
yet always the same,
the tide, the pulse,
the sound of life
and the mystery.

There is always time
for generosity,
a place for kindness.
Each person has their story,
the suffering and cruel
alike in their humanness,
their need to be understood.
Heartbreak is common,
being seen a balm.
Take a steel pad
to the burnt pot of the world
and scrub the char
until the metal shines.
Below every scarred face
a child,
behind every child
a mother,
before every mother
the endless;
generosity is gift to the giver,
kindness the repayment for a soul.

I am fallen from the highest branch
through cold air and strong wind
to soften and decay
in the mouth of the earth
becoming food for darkness,
green unto summer.

We’ll talk sometime
but not now,
not for awhile,
maybe in the next life
or when the sun
lights the river
and rocks shine.
Maybe when the earth
gives back what we left
when we thought
we had so much
yet all we had
was water in our hands
and the smell of green
intoxicating, delirious.
Down the long narrow trail
to the sound of sea lions
barking their belonging,
we wandered into
their world, the one
we thought was ours.

You put it down
you let it go
you walk away
you’re over with that
so over;
you tear up the pictures
throw out the clothes
forget about this
and especially that
you clean the attic
then the basement
do a ritual
lots of rituals
giving whatever
back to whoever
until it feels tired
and done
and you’re done
until a single bird
flies across the fog filled sky
in the perfect frame of a window.
One bird, then another,
then lots of birds,
a murder of crows;
the window empties
you look back and it’s still empty
and you know she’s speaking
even if your ears are shut
and your eyes are closed,
your soul is looking,
listening,
remembering
the soft nook in the dune,
wet rocks along the river
something returning
on the air,
the morning light,
something, someone
speaks and says hello..
you’re not done.