Expectation
sometimes only a catch of breath
a skip of heart or doubled beat
other times just vanity in a mirror
the empty chair is expectation
almost deadly
dust settles on the seat
unaware of anxious reasoning
the gift waits too
undisguised and screaming
untold treasure
if fulfillment needs such anticipation
then this gift
sit quietly
but do not confuse patience
with the hush of the audience
just before the curtain rises
The Poem Starts Here
Why does this poem begin now?
Word-weaving speculates through time
yet only now this poem made true.
Perhaps new textures charge the purple air
to make palms itch, or fresher flavors
fall down to and push up
through warmer earth. Perhaps other
eyes stare at damp sand trickling
baby fingers to admire sparkling dust.
Whenever a poem starts an ear cocks
to overhear a song first sung.
Synergy I
it was really wonderful
that day we raised the rainbow
softly calling it to appear
in that particular place and space
summoning each required color
to knit together like an afghan
just think on that day
you and I raised a rainbow
invoking sacred quality with ease
simply by dancing together
laughing and playing like children
it still amazes me
how on that day when we raised the rainbow
someone found her courage
someone lost his fear
and all of us enjoyed
A Metamorphosis (for Pamela W.) Not long ago, my best friend became a butterfly. Before she flew away, she had me to dinner and served me all her favorite foods. Among the casserole and cake, cheese and crackers and purple Kool-Aid, I asked her how it had happened.
The change was gradual, she said. One morning she noticed a web of fine filament covering her entire body, and when she leaned out the window she could feel the whole world on the breeze. The next day she stood, opened her arms wide and saw her wings – softer than velvet, warmer than any blanket.
Later that evening, as she sat in candlelit darkness, colors appeared: splashes of yellow, strokes of red and orange, spirals of purple and blue, all overlaid with a crystalline whiteness.
A few weeks later, she thought about all the people and places she'd known and all the things she'd learned from each of them. She said that remembering and sharing her memories with others caused her antennae to grow. With them she sensed the passion of all the people around her, knew the passion inside her, and understood that they were the same: the joys, the laughter, the heartache and confusion of everyone everywhere were all the same, all one.
The day before she flew away, she gave her house a good dusting. She polished the furniture until it gleamed and straightened the books on the shelves. Then she packed a few things she cherished about being human and put them away where she knew she could find them when she needed them.
Just before she flew away, I asked her why she thought she'd become a butterfly.
She gazed at me with a warmth and tenderness that made me ache just as it made me smile. On that magical day when she was complete, she said, on that day she simply understood that she always was a butterfly – bright and beautiful and free. Then she opened her arms and I saw her wings. They shivered and shimmered. Translucent, magnificent, so fine and so delicate, but strong enough to ride the wind.
