Underneath a cloudless, windless sky

afternoon sun cloaks me in heat,

birds chatter, insects hum,

seedlings emerge, flowers explode into color.

Seems silly to contemplate

the last frost still to come.

Surely the earth feels this too,

cherishes the warming and swelling of her skin,

the life beginning to venture forth,

emboldened by the seduction of a sunlit, blue suitor,

but cautious that winter may not have left the premises.

Nature possesses the wisdom, the patience I may never achieve

as she acknowledges the gentle memory of so many seasons past,

enjoying this day for what it is, but not leaping to conclusions,

knowing the greater order of this world in a way I never will.

I try to be the pupil who will make her proud,

not taking any part of today for granted.

Nine women displaying

flexibility,

grace,

strength

with each pose.

Nine women exchanging

energy,

truth,

power

with each breath.

Nine women releasing

tension,

insecurity,

fear

with each drop of sweat.

Nine women embracing

freedom,

intuition,

life

with each moment.

After sitting inside

me all weekend,

watching me whack

weeds, chop

limbs, trim

branches, my words

peek out

then duck back in

before they too

are lopped

in this frenzy.

Lying in bed this morning,

ready to begin the day,

listening to wind rock branches,

roar against the screen,

I groaned, rolled over

to hide underneath the pillow.

Then, remembering Mary Oliver’s words

about West Wind tantalizing the roses,

irritation blew away as I imagined

tender roses, wispy winter twigs,

bare lilacs, emerging crocus,

shuddering under the electric caress

of a forceful lover.

Later, walking in my windbreaker,

I swear I heard the naked mulberry tree

cry out in ecstasy

while her grandfather elm blushed

across the street.

Sun flirts with me,

fingers on my shoulder,

hand on the small of my back,

bold kisses on my cheeks.

Then, just as I turn with ready lips,

he ducks behind a curtain of cloud,

leaving me warm with longing.

like spring snow

falling even though it knows

nobody wants it to land

like flowers

compelled to surge through soil

aware that they may still freeze

How dare they expect me to

        show up on time

        remember which office is mine

        answer questions with accuracy

        provide friendly service

        make sound decisions

        file charts alphabetically

        apply therapeutic skills…

when it is hard enough

to remember my own name

after leaving all of it behind

on Friday at 4:00

for sixty-four hours

of nothing but freedom

Underneath slimy decay,

green promise of life.

Hope’s flowers bloom here.

For Dad. Happy Birthday!

Flowers, unable to contain their mirth,

earth’s red, purple, and blue delight

echoing everywhere we walk.

Mountain air expanding us

with each breath until we become

free as sky, steady as rocks.

Lakes, mirroring the sky,

pure, cold, and full of fish,

darting arrows pointing to dinner.

Companionship and ease,

gentle conversation, genuine laughter,

warming and brightening cold nights.

Love, like no other love,

deep, wide, free,

stretching beyond mountains and meadows.

“Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.”

                                                                                –Novalis

Insistence on logic and reason

whips flesh, warps souls

until the balm of poetry

closes gaping sores,

straightens the soul

back into fullness with images

birthed by pulsing intuition

through a view of the world

hopelessly hopeful and true

in a way that cannot, must not

be proven

or disproven.