How softly the long grasses
lean as they grow
tapping a tune
of one world
and the next.
They connect earth and sky,
spur lungs to fruit,
as owner and guest.
I love to sit on my father’s grave
near a tree looking up at the sky.
I don’t know why I don’t find it sad,
but I see him as always outside,
never inside working, only out playing,
his new life
a water-sky slide.
I might not use the word longing.
I feel unfamiliar with it -
but others use it, and so I step into what it might mean
to long and stretch -
I tend to live like a roly-poly bug,
rolled into a self-contented ball.
So, now, I lean into the wide reach and bend of caterpillar segments
lined up to munch one leaf and the next,
building steam for cocoon and wings,
preparing for a greater rest
where long and short, ball and stretch
have no context or boundaries -
no content, content.
Step Into Your Own Longing
What is it to step into one’s own longing?
Is this the fairy tale story of over the sun
and behind the moon,
an elaborate tale of east and west, north and south,
looking for a feather or a grail?
Is this Dorothy dropped back into
I work hard to open up to no possession,
no me, or mine - the mountain - thee,
and thou - ah, thou,
I delve now to know
the river’s flow, the mountain stacks of gold.
In a rural part of
that a burning drake opens the night sky
to reveal a vein of gold down below.
Last night the moon traced a path,
burning bright coins
a life in time.
Coins spent and given,
round edges of longing,
even as the exchange,