Not even my laptop or photo albums?
What about insurance policies,
the earrings my sweetheart gave me?
One pair in your ears.
If I go with just the clothes on my back,
which outfit should I choose?
Shoes you can run in.
My books?
Start memorizing poems now.
Learn how to tell a story.
If you trust the prayer
in breath and heartbeat,
you can travel light.
Human ears hear
the chittering of squirrels
and the here I am coos
of the mated mourning doves,
the breeze playing
in redwood boughs,
bamboo fronds,
and ponderous birds of paradise,
each tree as distinct
in the fingers of the wind
as instruments in an orchestra.
But could I ever learn to hear
the spit spat spurt
of asparagus cells eating sunlight
or slow my vision to catch
those green spears soaring to the sky?
Ordain my senses
that I may eavesdrop
on the love song
of the vine to the rosebuds
and the petals’ pleasure-soaked sighs
as they unfurl their delicate curves.
May I too sing You
ten thousand ways
in the ebb and flow
of silence.
Title from Rilke’s Book of Hours, 1,45
Hidden in the earth
a seed waits, drinking darkness.
Conceived on a summer day
when the sun suckled the earth,
fruit of wanton flowers frolicking
with passionate, hungry bees,
a seed in the womb of winter
might feel lost and forgotten.
But no,
the earth is not a grave;
it is your swaddling clothes.
Trust in the darkness,
trust in your quiescent potential
that holds all in its nothingness.
Spring will come,
and the light of lengthening days
will coax the glory of God
from the seedpod
and beckon you to itself.
Title from “Revelation” by Jenny George
Apples ripened and acorns fell early,
confusing madcap squirrels.
Girls wore sundresses in November,
and the pedicurist polished
toes to peep out of sandals.
Where were the umbrellas and wool sweaters?
Our customary summer drought
lingered past its welcome;
even the rosemary and echevaria thirsted.
But beyond our fevered planet’s ripped cocoon,
the stars still proceed in their stately course.
We may defy gravity,
but the law itself remains unbroken.
Our earth continues to orbit the sun
at the same tilt,
and the days grow shorter.
At dawn on the winter solstice
sunlight will pour down the ancient stone passage
just as it did five thousand years ago.
Oh, praise the light that is beyond our reach!
For the pace of the sun
and the gentle way
light returns to us each day.
For my eyes that see
shades of white and blue,
notice when specters become
guava tree and bamboo.
Now leaves that were black in the night
turn olive, sage, and seaweed green,
and for a moment
light tickles the cloud’s belly pink.
For the cup of silence
that holds this witness
to what never fails
but might be missed –
everyday magic.
Praise the fog that bathes the earth,
balm for blistered land,
drink for redwoods,
relief for all who labor.
From a distance you look like eiderdown.
Close up you are but wisp and gauze,
yet you sweeten each breath
a sun-wearied creature draws.
All we have is the heartbeat
played on the drum of this day.
We are the hands on the skin,
and this hollow space
that swells with the rising sun,
pregnant with possibility.
Here resonates the call
to work and play and —
thrumming within each beat —
the sun’s farewell,
the night into which we naked return.
(Title from a poem by Antal, an 8th-century poet and the only woman among the Twelve Alvars of South Indian Vishnu worship)
A bumblebee buzzes under the eave
as I take a sip from my coffee cup.
Though the sun has yet to peep
over the mountaintop,
light is seeping into the world.
All is still
except for the bee and me.
Jasmine and juniper,
salvia and fig tree,
even chipmunks and quail
wait in silence.
All is still
but the bee and me
and the rolling restless sea.
Soon, soon
stirrings will burst
into full-throated blessing,
the rest and prayer
of this longed-for retreat day,
but in this moment
we perch on the threshold
and see,
as guests at the feast would,
the bee and me seeking and sipping,
creatures alike in our need,
that this day will be good,
yes, very good indeed.
Long days and sultry nights
leach all reason
from my sleep-starved
flesh-enmeshed spirit
drunk on light and heat
then hungover
and with me a whole hemisphere
besotted and whirling.
Here at the edge of the sea
the fog will float in soon
and for all of us eventually
the soft quilt of darkness
but today and always
the cave of your heart
is lit with God-fire.
Feel it flow
through your veins.
Burn —
as only you know how.
Inspired by Linda Serrato’s poem “On This Morning” in Sacred Stone, Sacred Water: Women Writers & Artists Encounter Ireland.
