And so I rest

as if every dream that has been




never was to begin with

On the other side
Of challenge
Is
Growth
Waiting for me

To walk
Through the door
Of love,
With love
As love

Love is
As much giving as forgiving
As much offering as acceptance
As much sweetness as tears

A bubble
Of silent stillness
Lifts me
Past doors of illusion
Into the lap of
Emptiness

Emotions boom
like unhinged stereo equipment
                                      pushing gusts of wind waves through the room, disturbing epic stillness,
inciting wicked rage that ricochets;
                                             fingers scrape my face,
                                             figures lose their shape as vision fades,
pain transforms to passion;
                             two broken hearts took each other captive.

Sometimes its beautiful outside.
The sun shines for miles and miles. The clouds swim without a current. The grass sleeplessly kiss my ankles. I can hear my heart knocking in my ears. I stand still & feel mother gaia cradling me. I think no moment like this will ever exist.

I don’t know how to love the questions

that blast in brawling on wild winds lashing

the sirens of warning that road rivers are rising

and goodness is vanquished—

the single certainty of more

and too much as the earth spins

off its axis.

I do know how to be still

and listen in warm morning sunlight

to the wisdom of women who tell me

that hope looks like armies of beings wielding

sunflowers and parsnip, fishtails

and dust mops singing songs of our mothers

claiming our birthright, until hearts

find earth’s drum beat, songs

turn to thunder, until groundswell—

and the many are one.

I know how to hold a long gaze

squint far into the distance

until I can

see

it

if time could stand still,
the rain would feel cool upon my skin,
the weight of the pain would lessen,
and my breath would no longer hurt

if time could stand still
my would be adventures would start
with nothing holding me back
and the risks I shielded away would set me free


if time could stand still,
I would live with my mistakes,
my past would not define me
and the pain could lessen

— if time could stand still I’d let my grief consume me whole // a.

Glance out a northern window
and Winter suddenly beckons,
just five days after Solstice,
begging me to think again
on my habitual dislike.
The marble-white stratus above
looks as soft as a woolen blanket
covering all the strange things
outside this world's sky.
A vacant calm descends.
And I am content to be quiet
as the scene outside,
Bucolic and static as
A winter scene by Brueghel.
I trace the bare branches that weave
all around, seeming to huddle
near closed and shuttered houses.
They emit a silent desire to be known,
uncovered, naked models to the season
and sharp as a line drawing.
All the stillness leads to reflection
on the world we forget in summer,
the hidden moles and groundhogs,
insects that no longer irritate,
allowing us to cease effort
and sit at the table in the sun,
eating stew and drinking mulled wine.
But those of us who are curious
walk in the snow, hearing sounds
we never noticed: the crush of crystals,
the crack of frozen branches.
Or when the snow falls,
there is a softening quiet,
a restful pause in the air
and we are entranced, standing to listen
without effort, to the soundless sound
of mind without thought,
of Winter.