Fibonacci Sings

Walking across the kitchen to turn off a light
The hot water of a shower, wet hair, fingertips and the flow of motion
Not really one thing then another, not even a moment to be found
Just flow
And then no flow to be found, but moments, things again, seemingly
Shifting like this, until it just opens –

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dimensions of you

you arc around the edges of what they say
rainbow shimmered alive by the molecules of water and air
you resonate with your voice
startling the sky, moving tides with the moon of your laughter
you swim in the wide ocean of no-dividing-lines
redefining the real with waves from your spiraling-insistent imagination (more…)

Ocean of Us

for Belinda

       Wellfleet beaches twilight low tide, strung with stones like gazing stars
       you and I and the sun, seagulls setting and rising with the moon somewhere tiding rhymes around our wonder
       wandering, picking up the scattered verses of solid Earthspun rainbows daydreaming us
       the everything-children we are, exploring this allowingness at the edges of silver waves, falling awake in cold bursts within a warm heart-held nowhere
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The Soft Galaxy (Eulogy for a Chicken)

I’m still thinking of what was happening in Roadrunner’s mind the other day, standing five feet from the back door to the house, on a stoop two steps above the ground, facing the door as if wanting to come in. Every time I think of it, I feel sad – sadder than someone raised in a culture of scientific materialism blended with Catholic ideas about the specialness of humans is really supposed to feel about a chicken.

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The Mother of All Attunement (August 2016)

Walking the sandy path through the woods by Dyer’s Pond in Wellfleet, Massachusetts – with dried pine needles crackling under my bare feet, and late afternoon sun warming my bare upper body, and droplets from the sandy-bottom pond still meandering down my skin – I remembered that a body larger than my own or my mother’s had carried me like this throughout my life, and that this body had a name I could hear, a face I could touch, and an empathic resonance that could soak into the cells of my being, if I let it.

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Stillness Rises

Lately – amid the unfolding catastrophes of climate change, white supremacy, potential nuclear war and physical, emotional, psychological and institutionalized violence of many kinds – I’ve been spending hours of what free time I have lying down in a grassy field among pine cones and dry brown needles from last Fall, amid the deep and imperfectly-perfect harmonies of Highland Park, watching clouds drift, picking seeds from the open cones, soaking in sun and doing as much nothing as I possibly can.

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