Sometimes clouds roll away

revealing light

sometimes more darkness

“Wow, your poem punched my soul in the head…”

                -17-year-old boy giving feedback to a 13-year-old boy

 

Thank you,

bless you

for being

the golden bridge

connecting one

raw, hungry soul

to another

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a place to keep the outside out

a place to keep the inside in

 

a place to meet your spirit

a place to hide your shadow

 

a place to swallow stillness

a place to devour dreams

 

a place to inhale wild

a place to absorb truth

“In this woman the earth speaks…”

-Wendell Berry, Earth and Fire

 

Wind whispers through her lips.

Rocks murmur from her chest.

Trees chant in her strong legs.

Roots tell stories through her feet.

Sky delivers speeches in her eyes.

Moon gives advice from her belly.

Dirt asks questions in her fingertips.

Ocean screams through her blood.

Rain recites poetry from her shoulders.

Earth echoes in her heart.

I wanted so badly to feel

or at least believe

in that dark sanctuary

made holy with tall candles,

pictures of saints.

I closed my eyes,

squeezed tighter,

knelt on splintered rail,

repeating silent words

like heal and open,

waiting for a miracle

to twinkle through me,

some sort of sign

declaring sanctity.

 

But the only evidence

lay outside my soul:

pilgrims genuflecting,

dropping to their knees,

even raising their hands,

all appearing

to feel and believe

something I could not.

Even standing over

the well of sacred dirt

watching everyone else

fill plastic bags,

rub bodies with dust,

then finally sifting it

through my own fingers,

no flash of light,

no sparkly feeling.

 

Only after pushing open

heavy doors,

feeling sunlight

lay hands all over me,

hearing birds praise

the cloudless sky,

smelling sage and pinon,

peace

healing

faith

arrived on a path

which is not right

or wrong,

just different.

 

Anywhere but here

anyone but me.

Sky, do you have these days too?

Just a few things

she needed to know:

Would he be jealous

if he found her

kissing the sun?

How would he handle

overhearing

whispered conversations

with the moon?

Could he tolerate

sharing her hands

with the soil?

Would he feel inadequate

if the wind touched her

in ways he could not?

And what if he caught her

with limbs tangled

in and around

tall handsome trees?

Sunday morning stillness

raven wings scissor-snip

through sleepy silence

vantage point (noun): a position that affords a broad overall view or perspective, as of a place or situation

American Heritage Dictionary

 

At first it felt frivolous

to pull onto a dirt road

while cars raced on the highway

in a hurry to do important things,

felt foolish to stand there

watching that moment

when the day finally sits back

exhaling an orange sigh,

felt silly to gasp

when orange breath

became pink fingers

stroking silhouettes of mountains.

And then it became obvious

it would have been

frivolous

foolish

silly

to be doing anything else.