Morning flow of poems -
Nourishment - December 14, 2005
winter
-
oatmeal
for breakfast,
with
dried cherries, cranberries,
raisins,
and
cinnamon from
now, a pink sky
after
an almost full moon -
coffee, leaves floating
in a
titillating drift
down
my throat -
pink glimpse, brief -
how
many moments missed
when
I refuse or simply forget
to
look outside
and
be -
owl now,
whooing,
too
awakened
by
this display
to
sleep -
like the sky
is
one huge leaf
and
we ride the veins
like
water and sap,
moving
inside
the
creek
Receiving
look at homes near me,
wanting to buy,
and they are ferocious
in wanting to know
what the weather will be.
“What
time does the fog clear each day,” they ask.
I look up at the sky, and reply,
How is it where you are now?
Can you predict rain, heat,
cold, snow?
How
can you ask such a question?
Weather is not a can of paint
shaken and sprayed
with
the same coat each year.
Why would you want to know?
Isn’t it more of a treat to
wait and see,
what
the fog decides to do.
It
goes in and out,
comes and goes,
like what you feel
inside,
when you sink into your flow,
like now -
How is the light -
Cleanse
washing my insides,
I feel
the glass as it cleans and slides,
the
blades that glide,
as I
squeak my way
to
knowing
clarity
and transparency,
as guide
-
I
Keep Asking
feeling it enough?
The
space, the air,
what’s
inbetween -
Am I
all there for it?
The
place where fire ignites
the
branch
that
lived and died,
to
give me heat, light,
and
fuel -
Am I
here
for
the living within,
the
fairy dance of the cells
waving
their wands
like
swings -
Am I
here to fully feel,
the
translation letting go,
to a
cup,
in
which I drink,
the
womb,
of
being known -
am I
here -
am I
grown -