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.