Morning flow of poems -

 
Nourishment  - December 14, 2005

 
winter -
oatmeal for breakfast,
with dried cherries, cranberries,
raisins,
and cinnamon from Ceylon -

and now, a pink sky
after an almost full moon -
coffee, leaves floating
in a titillating drift
down my throat -

that pink glimpse,  brief -
how many moments missed
when I refuse or simply forget
to look outside
and be -

an owl now,
whooing,
too awakened
by this display
to sleep -

it’s like the sky
is one huge leaf
and we ride the veins
like water and sap,
moving
inside
the creek

                   Receiving

 People 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

Window 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     

Am I 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 -