That magic hour when the sun
exchanges yellow for gold
as the day tiptoes away
and everything becomes softer,
gentler, slower, suspended somehow
between coming and going,
starting and stopping,
living and dying,
inviting you to slip silently
into the sweet glow of now.

There is no forward here, only the agony
of sliding backward on this slope
I want so desperately to summit,
but the more I want it, the farther ahead
I focus, the more I trip and slip,
landing in the dirt, knees skinned,
pants ripped, trying to look around
and laugh at something, trying to remember
the lesson I keep almost learning,
trying to let go of everything but this moment
begging to be lived before I take another step.

When
Intuition
Swallows
Drops
Of
Mystery
*
Words
Ignite
Solitary
Destiny,
Obliterating
Mayhem
*
Whisper
Into
Secret
Drawers
Of
More
*
Wild
Instinct
Sticks
Delight
Onto
Magic
*
Wonder
Inviting
Silence,
Dreams,
Or
Music
*
Won
In
Sudden
Decisions
Over
Moments

These poems I’ve been living—
every emotion a word,
every decision a line,
every lesson a stanza—
may eventually make their way
onto paper, but for now they are
too active, too tender, too alive
to capture and cage.

Where are the step-by-step instructions

to guide this journey? I try to move,

one foot in front of the other, struggling

to make sense of these outdated maps

with trails and highways that no longer

lead anywhere worth going. Frustration

and panic send scalding tears while

I stand, stuck, desperate to find directions

for moving forward, blind to the beauty

surrounding this path, forgetting to enjoy

each moment in this space, losing sight

of the true meaning of adventure.

 

I must release the maps from my hands,

sending them away with the wind, must

stand quietly and begin to hear the hymn

of instinct reminding me I don’t need to know

where to place my feet on which fork in the trail,

but do need to trust my ability to navigate

using the sun, the stars, and that wise voice

telling me to simply be who I am.

I search under and through the clutter

of expectation to find the map I know will

lead me to the lost city of security

on the trail that allows me to avoid

that messy forest of the unknown.

I can greet anger, own it, feel it

without running to hide behind “It’s okay”,

without angling the mirror inward.

 

I can use its coiled momentum to hurl

myself toward creation, destruction,

dissolution, resolution.

 

I can contain its flame until I’m ready

to detonate my voice, my hands

into explosions of truth and justice.

If you need a reason

for love (the noun)

or love (the verb),

consider this:

the companions, the places, the things, and the moments

filling and surrounding your life, the one you have right now,

have not yet been taken away.

 

So love while you are still able,

pouring all that you are

into those glass jars of impermanence

teetering on the edge of “not yet.”

for Casey

Those of us who have wild woven into our souls—

     we who are pulled toward mountains,

     growing stronger as we get closer,

     we who ache to smell and touch trees,

     desiring the touch of the sun, the tickle of the wind

     as much as we do any flesh and blood lover,

     we who nestle into beds of leaves and grass,

     cradled and comforted into deep, dreamful sleep,

     we who carry the river, feeling it rush and flow

     through the caverns and banks of our own bodies,

     we who can decipher the alphabet of the stars,

     delighting in the poetry we read in each night sky,

     we who feel honored by the presence of animals,

     grateful for all they teach and tell,

     we who need regular doses of fresh, outside air

     to sustain us during time in buildings and cities,

     we whose spirits recognize their reflections

     in the forest’s eyes, the desert’s mirror,

     we who learn our truths by listening

     to birdsong and thunder, by paying attention to lessons

     taught by clouds and rocks, raindrops and feathers,

     we who cannot and will not stop exploring,

     curiosity propelling us farther and farther,

     we who speak the language of wonder

     and sing songs of discovery—

we must take care of each other,

using our feel-everything-wide-open hearts

to find each other and nurture the longings

for freedom and wilderness in our daily lives.

We must seek opportunities to commune,

to celebrate, and collaborate, igniting

and sustaining flames of passion and purpose.

We must share the abundant lessons and gifts

from the natural world with those who need them,

using our ease, our skills in the woods

to guide others’ journeys toward discovery.

We must protect those places and all

that inhabit them, balancing our knowledge

with responsibility, modeling respect and reverence.

We must commit to staying wise and alive,

staying aware and connected, carving time

out of our tame lives to get out and simply be

in those spaces and with those spirits

that remind us who we really are,

how wild we have always been,

how wild we must remain.

From rise to set,

that ball of light and heat

travels the path of purpose

 

Two days of dusk till dawn

teaches more than any

science textbook

 

Strips of sky, like

mistresses wait with patience

for sun to touch them again

 

When curtains of clouds

seal sun away, time hides

in a faraway place