The stone feet of the island
rest in the sea, their grass skins
glistening at low tide.
The winds have calmed
after yesterday’s storm,
stillness replacing the rush
of air and breaking wave.
Supported by earth
I sit with the old ones
to search for new stories,
dreaming of fire
and cold water’s brace.
I dream I am human
with sharp teeth
and open hands, welcome
in the cathedral of the deep.
Diving with orca
a lost kingdom rises
in the marrow of my bones,
filling my soul
with the treasure of peace.
As I stretch out to warm
in the light of the day
these dreams become ribbons
tying sea to stone
and in their bright colors
begin the new stories.

photograph by Patrick Orleman

There’s always more to do,
the world wanting your attention,
hurry now before the circus leaves town.
All that you are not quite enough
with the elephants to watch
and the ladies in tights.
The midway barkers shout
try your luck, here’s your chance
yet beyond the fairgrounds
in a green slice by the river
silence waits and the sound
of the wild, of water over rock.
You’ll forsake the calliope,
walk a lot of lonely miles
but if you’re called to wonder
you won’t regret leaving the circus
or your time beside the river.
The sound of her voice
lilts quietly on the wind,
the fluttering of cottonwoods
and dappled water
tracing mysteries on your heart,
speaking the sacred words
that answer every prayer –
you belong.

Ripe and full the harvest moon rises
casting tree shadows from their tops
lifted to the star wheel.
No loneliness or garish glare,
just silver glow and silence.
Orion in the east
signals winter coming
yet still there is warmth
and the sweetness of corn.
The winds will pick up
bringing early storms,
rain again to soak the land,
but for now I walk in moonlight,
drinking deep the night.

Grey water and light wind,
the distant call of a gull.
The weight of these times
with me as I settle
into the silence once more,
the presence of the sea
deep and unmoving.
The old voices are with me,
tired of the world,
the many broken places,
and something else
rising from within
to meet her beauty,
greet the morning.
Faces on the ancient stone
much like my own,
dipping into cold water,
lifted toward the light.

He turns to rise with the sun
at the far edge of the world,
no temple or towering buddha,
just the lonely sound of garbage trucks
and smoke choked skies,
preparing witness
for the coming of the eternal.

photo by Willard Walch