(Written from the prompt “The door is round and open” from Rumi’s poem, The Breeze At Dawn, translated by Coleman Barks)

“The door is round and open”
So, a hobbit door
Bilbo’s door
Frodo’s door
To there and back again

Back again
Ah, as Will would – did – say/write
There’s the rub

To duck through that hobbit door
Into that rich, dense, dangerous world
Whether it be once, middle, or soon earth
To shoulder your heart’s pack
To tug your hopes’ cap onto your head
To wrap your memory cloak close
To step into your courage
And tie the laces tight
That is one thing
No small thing
A very big thing, in fact

But to find your way back again
After you’ve lost what was most precious
To find your way back
Duck through that round door
Into that small and too well known space
Without your precious
With only your wounds
To put pack, cap, cloak, boots away
In the very back of the storage cupboard
And settle satisfied
Into a once-favorite chair
In front of a once-familiar fire
To leave the road outside
Untrod
And still be content and grateful

That takes even more skill
More luck
More courage
More grace
Than the outward journey

The home of my belonging
Is not four walls
But my love’s sheltering arms

The sanctuary for my restless soul
Is not a mighty cathedral
But our modest home
In this thoroughly middle-class neighborhood

The generosity of caring
Is not sharing money or even volunteering
But sharing this home
With those who need tranquility

The security of eternity
Is not a creed, belief or practice
But the ever more circumscribed life
We live
My love and I
In this our quiet home

Every day now the abundant portulaca
Open and close their small blossoms in rhythm with the sun
Every day now the gawdy canna blossoms rise on sturdy stalks 
Reaching high above their graceful green leaves
To made red holes in the blue sky
Every day now slender white blossoms rise on fragile stalks
Above the hostas’ abundant leaves
Every day now the coleus needs no blossom
To entrance with its showy leaves

Every day now I feel a little more
The possibility of joy
Blossoming like our garden
In haphazard profusion
Above the manure rich soil
Of America

Do you ever feel
What?
Where are the right words?
The words of not self-doubt exactly
Not imposter syndrome exactly
…
Wait
Perhaps I dismiss that too easily

In a world of academics
Who treasured the memories
The robed colors
The teachers and mentors
Some now famous
At least in the circumscribed specialty world
That was almost all their world
In that world
I was always an imposter
To myself

My value of those achievements
Never what was expected

Now, as that world recedes ever further
My universe expands
While seeming to contract
Ah, the beauty of the unknown unoccupied spaces
Between starry pinpointed lights

Ah, the relaxation as I surrender
Willing captive to that spaciousness
That empties me

And yet, again, into that delicious emptiness
Flows the ego’s certainty
I stumble where others glide
A skater on thin ice
A turkey among ducks
A plodder in my depleted soul
A blind person with delusions of vision
I am but an imposter
I do not belong

These are the thoughts
The feelings
The certainties
The dangerous aliens
All too familiar
That would crowd out the starlight

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