Houses We Once Knew

"The houses are all gone under the sea." — T.S. Eliot

We moved through those rooms,
Leaving our fingerprints on the air,
Exhaling our hopeful spirits into those walls,
Eagerly absorbed,
Just passing through,
Though they remain.
Memory offers a window
With a finer view,
From a room in need
Of no renovation,
Where laughter and delight commingle
With tears and disappointments.
Sweetly, though,
We never left that
Bright afternoon,
Brimming with hope,
As we backed
Out of the drive
For the last time.

Spring Evening Song

Soft might capture it
though nothing
can articulate
where silk air
intersects with
kaleidoscopic light
atomized in mist
nature healing swirling
trying its best
daffodils trees shrubs
birds squirrels
rising up or scattering
or perhaps celebrating
some sacred pact
delivering on a promise
of earth and sky
returning from
a walk to the sea
with the day's final rays
and waves behind
clawing the coast
catching again
the peeper chorus'
short-lived ancient
song of praise

My Valentine to Creation

Something about the tangible itself,
Every inch and speck of it —
From the oak tree on the corner
Bearing fattening buds to the
People milling about in the soft,
Yellow light of their homes —
That just cries out for praise.
How exquisite is the world
And everything in it, if we look,
And are at rest and without
Internal strife or external threat.
How remarkable is mere breath tonight
And the dog on the leash
Sniffing tall snowbanks to
Decipher a dog code
We will never know.
How beautiful are all the people
We love and have loved — in those
Moments when we locked eyes
And smiled knowingly
At the bliss of existence.
How lucky have I been to connect
And make people laugh and cry
And think and wonder.
And they have done the same for me —
In ways deep and true.
I love them all.
How blessed it is to have moved
About this planet to far-flung places
To experience the differences
In cultures and landscapes.
How essentially good and true it is
To know God personally, to have
That awareness of a divine force
Behind everything, pulsing in
Your fingertips as well as in the stars,
Pressing out with an undeniable,
Ever-expanding affirmation that love
Infuses all things, all creation,
That faith is humming in the
March evening air tonight,
That somehow all is not lost and
Everything comes together harmoniously,
That love endures all eternity, all tragedy,
All pain, all unknowable boundaries ...
Lift up my heart and soul to sing praise —
I offer myself utterly and completely to you.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

In An Instant

all seems to turn around

like you never planned it

those fears that cropped up

wash under the coral reef

or silt under the forest floor

those dark clouds replaced

by the sunshine that had

glowed up there all along

that bare branch budding out

cliché and hokey but true

we lie to ourselves

far too much for our own good

and the lesson is to

soldier on as it were
and minimize your mistakes

Sear

Enough.

Uncle.

You won.

I get it.

Point taken.

Purify me.

Burn out

My soul's
Impurities
In your crucible.
Disconnect me.

Hollow me out.

I am a smoldering

Shell of self.
Still, I cry for mercy.

The Snowflake

Just one — take your pick.
No two alike, they say.
Crystallized thousands of
Feet up in numbers
Defying any calculation,
Each a solitary star
Etched in ice —
A glittering, symmetrical,
Fragile masterpiece
Of precision and elegance.
Just one — conceived
In cloud, blown sideways,
Buffetted, battered, twirling,
Dropping in the dark
Over ocean, field, and forest.
Just one — turn skyward,
Open wide, and let it
Hit your tongue
With a crisp hiss.

It's Not My World

"All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death?"
—T.S. Eliot, "Journey of the Magi"

Never was,
Though I act as if.
I don't matter fully
In the great scheme.
One soul.
One heartbeat.
One life.
You love as best you can.
You attempt to offer a salve,
Some goodness, in the paucity
Of your humanness.
But you are not the world,
Though many days it
Feels that way.
Never was.
Get it line, I say,
With the march of Time.
Ten-feet tall and bullet-proof:
As if!
What I do have:
Memories varied and deep —
And life and life and life ...