In

the

between

spaces, you taught

me how to rest with the canyon,

how to wrestle with the canyon, and still, how to love,

within the incomprehensible

divide; and to find

the hidden

spaces

here,

too.

She

talks

about

the weather

on the street corner,

and how you've got to accept good

and evil from God's hand. When the light turns green, I leave

with my two-buck benediction.

Selfish on my part;

she'll prob'ly

spend it

on

booze.

Child

of

laugher,

were the beams

you carried plucked from

your own bright eye? Did you stumble

underneath their weight, climbing the hill of sacrifice?

Trembling in the dark, did you sweat

drops of blood, or were

you silent

as a

young

ram?

First

frost:

the year

snaps shut. All

the summer's humid promises

are frozen and cracked. They say that hell is just getting

what you want; I have dreamed of this.

August taunts me, vows

to return.

Later.

Not

now.

O

my

little

one, you are 

so small. There is room

for you to perch in the narrow

spaces at the center, and sing. Sing clear and sweet, child,

until great shafts of light break through

and the mountains move;

the kingdom

belongs

to

you.

Evening

The sun with golden fingers lingers,
stroking each long blade of grass.
Cold dusk creeps along behind her;
evening comes to pass.

O

my

little

heart, soft wings

feathery with hope

and fear and dread, be steady now.

Find the wind's sure pulse, and beat, beat

the rising rhythms of the gentle air, and beat, beat,

let your fluttering find firmness

soaring light. With faith

and love, keep

steady

my

heart.

Those

who

can, should.

All the rest

of us must teach, teach,

until we finally start to learn

that to teach is to enter the learning, stoop to squeeze

through the tiny, child-sized passage

where the kingdom is

glimpsed through the

needle's

bright

eye.

Dusk
comes

when dust

encrusted

light descends, and bends

the clouds in loud, fantastic hues;

cues for this proud day

to end, just

as all

days

must.

In

bleak

silence

we wander

under flame and cloud,

achingly hungry, and tired of 

bewildering bread. We crave yeast. Who knew redemption

would involve so many blisters,

and so few onions?

Even tears

might quench

this 

thirst.

We
went
to see
the dragons.
Enormous cables
suspended their bones from the roof.
Safe behind velvet
ropes, we gape:
their fire
gone
out.



Old
brass
labels
spell ancient
words long rusty, cold.
We shiver.
Dragons
are
big.


Long
dead,
stripped of
flesh, fire, and
fable;
now
they


 are
 quite



safe.

It's

not

as though

you can leave

the leaving behind.

Stay or go,

you still

have

left.

O

poor

spirit,

you are blessed.

In your rise and fall

remember that the one who sits

in the heavens laughs, and his laughter is the laughter

of a tender father watching

his children play; but

only if

that's who

you

are.

First

your

brother

Lazarus,

then you, bursting from

your alabaster tomb, poured out

your unbound glory

at the feet

that bring

good

news.

What

is
language

for? Why do

our groans and grunts and

squealings coalesce into words?

Gathering like snowballs, the phrases tumble faster
faster down the steep slopes of mind,
melting in the end,
 to form slow
rivers
we
share.

The

sign

will be

your silence,

and her song unleashed,

pouring out when the Spirit comes.

Hear the little Galilean sing; the poor are filled,

the lofty emptied. Now you must

deny your name, scratch

out the words:

his name

is

John.

The sibyl with her leaves of maddening verse,
Enchanted by her captivating curse;
Nor she nor I can say which one is worse:
    the silentness of sight
    or wind of words.

Cassandra sits with her among the leaves,
And Ariadne, weeping as she weaves;
Their sisterhood, this common curse of Eve's:
    the silentness of sight
    and wind of words.

Mother of God, whose face is ever bent
Toward thy Son's tree, assist me to repent,
That I may walk the way in which you went,
    who held in silent night
    both Wind and Word.

Woman's Work

Some things, like space, with all its sundry duties,
come with every human's territory,
and for a few, who grace their space with beauties
sweet, serene, the home's a field of glory.
I am human, too, and tread on floors
which must be swept to clear a space to think.
We all do all, but each from different cores
of strength from which to work; mine's not the sink
or vacuum. Eve herself did not at first
have clothes to wash; I do because she shares
as help meet in the woes with which man's cursed.
But these are human, not just female cares.
    We each must have our own ill-fitting labor,
    as well as strengths with which to help our neighbor.

To

glimpse

the thoughts

that formed God's

works so wise, to wrap

your mind around the thing that stands

sure and certain, ancient patterned plans; to  know beauty

of earth and skies, spiraling out from the still center, first you must dance with the quick-bright

ever-moving images, and learn to learn from their

learning, lean on their leaning on

you; in that image,

see the sight

of Him

who 

sees.

Apology

I was very good at saying sorry,
but I always knew that good was not enough.
Over and over, I'm sorry, I'm sorry for
never enough, never sorry enough, and plus,
all these annoying apologies: I'm sorry
for them as well. It was never enough. I wrapped
myself in comfortingly righteous rags;
no hope for enough, but at least it might be more.

No more. I have heard the creaking of stones, and the voice
from the cleft of the rock, felt the steady rhythmic whoosh
of blood again. The time has come to fold
the swaddling graveclothes neatly in the cave.
My righteousness was shit. True holiness
was pulsing through the mercy I once scorned.