A Flooding
I was this small
When the ocean
Hurled its great self
Onto my city
I didn’t know
How the clouds did it
How the wind
Conspired to arrive
And keep arriving
~
When the outside
Was all wrath and outburst
The house lay quiet
We submitted
To the power
That had turned
Home into catacomb
Candles
Into reverence
~
In one of the many nights
Behind layers of soft sounds
Every now and then
A song in the wind
A wailing
For a lost love
A battle cry
A cheer
A slashing and another
A declaration
From a stranger
I’ve arrived, I’ve arrived…
~
A little later
An attempt at naming
The radio baptized
The calamity
We found that
The mountains
In their own way
Endured
And in some way
Buried
The rats and
The birds
Mourned
Felled trees
And there were caravans
Of food
Water
Dead bodies
~
After all
Piles and piles
Of wet leaves
After all
A prayer
For all that’s left to keep
For all that’s left to grieve
Earth-Talk
Do you think the satellites can hear it, no matter
how faint? Every toe-curl, bone-crack, and root-wrangle?
Do you suppose the molten core grumbled
like a grandpa, and the young moon was amused?
We have found water signs in odd places,
and we’ve dodged a comet or two. But all this
is just earth-talk; even then, it’s mostly sea.
But I like to think of us as entertaining, at least.
A rock, yes, but given the odds, extraordinary.
I Assure You the Yearning of the World to be Chosen
For you to wake up one morning with complete admission
that your place is here and that you are housed in a belonging
you yourself insisted on. Only you can arrange for this wild
homecoming wherein every blue line you drew as a child is now
a raging river, and every dog, cat, and caterpillar you once adopted
is delighted to attend. The earth has courted you this entire time,
offering to dress you in flowers and bathe you in cool springs of mint.
I say this because too often, the loneliness and the panic stem
from this denial of the deliberate nature of living. Remember: every
breath, no matter how automatic, is the body choosing to expand.
So like the bees, hold all this light in the crucible of your small body
and choose, at every waking moment, to offer honey to the world.
In Praise of Mary Oliver
She spoke so clearly about places of love
and our place in loving. Mostly, her voice
was delicate, but at times also reckoning.
She called onto the haunting and summoned it
right at the forefront saying, “There you are.
You ancient, lovely thing. Sit down before
you hurt yourself, or worse, miss the morning.”
The Dignity of Wild Things
I.
First, the rodent
can no longer gather
twigs and barks
of pessimism
to build its habitat
in my mind.
II.
For years
I was not allowed to bow
my head in failure and doubt.
I shall do this now
with full permission.
I am reminded.
This was my posture
long ago
whenever I went to pray.
III.
Second, I will now produce my own joy
as bees do.
It is not the only thing to be made
nor should it ever be.
But I am endeared to the promise
of a sweetness
that will never expire.
IV.
Will you come adore
the flowerbeds
with me?
V.
Third, the sparrow
that fell and broke its wing
will sooner die
than feel sorry for itself.
The flight was a chance
but the leap was necessary.
I would like to acquire
a similar dignity if I could.
To risk survival
if I couldn’t.
VI.
Tell everyone!
Spring has come.