spirit
I wavered by the field, yet
the wind knew me
then,
a brittle leaf shrinking into a needle,
and in its ancient knowing
searched my insides like a compass point,
and brought me
there
in tears.
For I am full of things I have not known
and will never release.
I clutch to my chest
that which I do not understand,
and in holding on
I am held.
manna
I carried my daughter in my arms
out to watch
another Indiana sunset,
and as we staked our boots in the cold,
a flock of geese traversed the sky,
black ships navigating indigo seas,
between narrow burning isles,
and my daughter squeaked back at them
as they flew overhead.
We watched the clouds crocheting themselves into scarves,
in both of our eyes swimming
the sunset, ah! The glory
of that which fades,
and in its fading
fills us with further glories,
until we cease
to wonder what it is
and feast.
bread
The meadow grass gathers itself up
like shocks of wheat,
and the shocks gather together
flank to flank, heaving
out foggy breaths
over a bed of precious things.
And the precious things
gleam in the glancing
light until they melt away,
dew made daylight
in a winter dawn.
I look along the beam.
wine
I know again the winter trees
as structures
outlining a full-formed architecture,
as foundations of another world
intersecting, today, with my own.
And in them, through them, I know
again the winter sky
as a canvas spread flat
against which color may hold existence
and hold court with nature
and hold hands with truth,
a semblance of new sense
born of old sense
and held by senses here.
And by the sky, against the sky,
I know again the winter ground
on which I stand,
the potential of it,
the fullness of it, as great with Child,
a longing known in waiting,
a fullness felt by peace.
And of the ground, beneath the sky,
within the winter trees
I know again
myself,
a pair of feet wandering
over crypt and under tower,
beside the bones
of other beings: spread like stained glass,
speaking like saints,
lifting eyes like worshippers.
Unknown prayers bleed out of me,
released, it would seem,
by winter. Undone, it must be,
by the swelling belly
of a greater glory
pressing against
the groaning world,
longing to escape.
Thus
we rehearse the return.
