Grief runs like a river
beneath thin layers
of sand and stone,
carrying stories
of pain and failed hope
to an ocean of silence.
The great heart of the world
includes this ocean and river
pulsing with rhythms of sorrow
and new life born again and again
in the gardens of the gods.

Breathing more easily
the rain soaked ground
sheds the dull brown of summer
for a pale hint of green.
Arising like Lazarus
mosses come alive
with fir and madrone;
the slow patter on our roof
peaceful as a lullaby.
There is no altar but the earth,
no religion that returns us
like a cloud filled sky.
The beast says you need more
yet drink the rain
and drop your root
into the abandoned silence.
There’s no one to be but yourself.

Who am I fooling,
the earth broke me
on the wheel of time,
ground me like winter wheat
for the coarsest bread.
Grind some more
I said in my bravado
and the earth was glad to oblige,
passing me under the miller’s wheel
until fine sifted flour.
Now make me food for all that lives
I dared in my foolishness
and again the earth was glad
to bake me in her oven
and serve me to the people.
Buttered and brown
I pass through faceless masses
until a small sad eyed child
receives a crumb, lifetimes pressed
into one moment of bread,
and put to his mouth I am whole.

Walker Evans photograph

Certain only of uncertainty
I browse the rooftops
with black feathered crows,
seeking sustenance
among the ignored and forgotten.
The ancient temple in ruins,
the one to be a dim-lit dream,
yet within on the altar
of the forever now
shine a thousand candles
lit by untold prayers
of thankfulness.

Amidst the passing cars
and rush of doing
there is silence,
a bearing point
to comfort and guide.
Look up from your footsteps,
beyond the troubled horizon.
That soft light in the distance,
it is for you.