The whistle of a bird
The slant of sunlight through the trees
The still-soft hairs on his old man’s arm
The almost burnt richness of fried plantains
The spicey smell of garam masala

But also
The death of my brother-in-law
Sweeping up after a shedding dog
Surveying the unexpected disorganization of my kitchen
The bone aching insistent tiredness at the end of a day
Of doing nothing

The long years behind
The ever shorter road ahead
Sweltering in passion’s bright light 
Through criss-crossed branches of dim trees
As the road twists out of sight
Bringing me ever closer
To a grave vineyard of plump poetry
Ripening under the greening branches of love

Can you feel it?
Just a bit more gentleness
A bit more kindness
A bit more stubbornness 
Released from failing flesh

To fall
Like a soft steady downpour 
Over our parched world.

Gordon and Ernie
Brothers-in-law
Brothers in death
Brothers in gentleness
And in stubbornness.

Bodies die.
Love lingers…
And spreads

I love a dirty kitchen

Recently used cookware on
A grease splattered stove

China plates, large and small
Waiting to have dinner’s vegetable remnants
Scrapped into the compost
Meat remnants
Into the dog’s dish

Cookware, serving ware, tableware
In careless abandon
Lying every which way

Glasses
Water and wine
Emptied of their miracles
Stand erect
As if waiting for CSI
To come along
And dust them for prints

But I come instead
To fill that void of a sink
With warm soapy water

To plunge my hands in first
Almost shivering with delight
A secret smile barely visible
On my face
As I anticipate the pleasure
Of cleaning my kitchen
Called dirty
But really
Not dirty at all
Just well used

My kitchen fills the role of lover
So well
Dirty, clean or inbetween
It nourishes my body and soul

I plant seeds of silence between rows of words
Fertilized frequently
They soon sprout tender shoots of quiet
Watered wantonly
They grow into sturdy stalks of refuge
Blossoming beautifully 
Their fragrant flowers give sweet nectar
To my buzzing bee mind

He watches the grass
The leaves, the porch railing
And startles gently at a bird song
Looking around
Wide-eyed
Not quite sure where

He blinks as the soft breeze
Brushes his face
Then notices his feet
Imagine that
Bare feet
Right there in reach
So he reaches

Ah, but then the bird calls again
Where? Where?
Distracted, he loses his grip on one foot
Now where did that go?
He looks at my face
Do I know?
Did I let that foot slip away?
Apparently not
So he searches down his leg again
Ah, there it still is
Waiting for his hand

Both feet now firmly in hand
He illustrates yoga’s happy baby asana
To perfection
Losing himself in the sheer joy
Of hands and feet
Leaves and birds
Sky and eyes

While I lose myself
In the sheer joy
Of him

Fantasies of forgiveness
Form my dreams

Realities of resentment
Preempt my wakings

I dream of forgiveness
In a time of anger

I wake to grudges
In a time of sorrow

I know myself
Incapable of contentment

I fear myself
Undeserving of understanding 

I pray

Casting my prayer
Out and up with the birds
Flying outside my window
After the night’s storm

I quake
Feeling my longing
Stir like the leaves
Dancing careless
In the morning breezes

Let there be lightness
Let there be love
Let there be less self
And more me

Amen

I am kalidescope
Every time I try to look through
Myself
I see a new something or other
Twisting and turning inside me

How am I to hold on to
Each of those individual smallnesses
That coalesce
Again and again
In different patterns
To seem like me

Write, the instructor prompted, about one soul meeting another
I look up from the screen to see Mario
Our newly hired gardener
Bringing a heavily laden wheelbarrel of sand
To enrich – or perhaps I should say de-rich?
The clay soil beneath the window
Where Woody has created a rocky dry stream bed
And I will create a succulent garden

Now that Woody has laid the rocks
And Mario the sand
I can plant the hardy succulents

With such richness right before my eyes
Such richness of effort meeting effort
What image arises in my mind?
The sole of my shoe
With the damp red clay soil
Soul of the earth 
Clinging to it

You know that feeling?
That every feeling that takes your breath away
And leaves you speechless
In wonderment

Wonderment

At the ceaselessness of our mourning
Flowing through the eternity of our joy

At abiding contentment
Building with enduring restlessness

At dark despair climbing infinite heights
Roped to our stubborn hope

At the bricks of certain rejection 
In the long wall of unqualified acceptance

At faith and disbelief trundling along happily
Together forever

What shall we call that feeling?
Ah yes, being human.

The strangely happy thing about our garden
Is that it is always perfect
And yet never finished
It is always just right as it is
And yet always becoming something else

Not becoming
More perfect
Or better
Or kinder
Or gentler
Or wiser
Or more spiritual

Not always becoming
Brighter
Or more colorful

Not always becoming
Growth
And abundance

Sometimes becoming
Death
And decay

Sometimes becoming
Waiting
And barreness

Its perfection in every moment
Is inescapably always becoming