Ever Turning

There are spheres in the world
that contain the whole of who we are:
the womb that carries us,
the sky of night by which loving voices
sing to us,
the cup of palm,
the grace of skull
and forming bone,
the round tone of voice which paints
such heartbreak of love,
the wheel of time,
the curve of ripened fruit
that lets us imbibe unbroken summers.

These will twist and turn us,
heating all sides
until we are encompassed by fire
in a wave of creation to which
we are born
ever perfect
ever turning
never ending.

Burned Blue

Every one of our words were burned -
flame-ignited, smoke and ash,
not a single syllable to be seen.

Only heat remained,
inexorable
curling licks of it
passing through our hands.

And finally,
when the world would let us stand
for each other,
naught but burning remained,
our words whisked away in smoke
again,
into a witnessed fire
that burned blue at the edges.

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Super Nova

I am feeling sick in my cocoon.
It is fever hot
and painful to the touch.
There is nothing
save movement,
everything becoming.
I
myself
me
I am the same,
at one with the walls that hold me.
But the wings are forming.
The soon intolerant touch
of the earth
holds sway no longer.
I transform into delicacy
and flight.
Every incarnation on my way
is torment, though.
Molecular super novas
burn clouds of sight
from old eyes.

The gravity of light
now holds my life
captive
and free.

The Mire and the Field

It is not about
escaping the mire
in which you find yourself.

It's about squishing your toes
deeper into the mud,
grasping the reeds,
letting the panic of constriction
shorten your breath
and quicken your heart -

and finding peace
within that sunken stance,
finding Spirit there with you -

that which teaches us
not only that the mire and you
are One
but that there is dry ground
and wide field
and that
you are One with them, too.

Crucible

The world is what winnows me away.
I come in to you,
burned by the outside.
I come in to you
reduced to my elements,
a shining Truth.
I come in to you
and hope you are not blind today.

Mariner

I do not ask the light to come,
this force that breathes life
and beauty
into this moment
but arrives with quiet progression.

It carries the house of joy
and a key to unlock the rooms
of distant oceans.

I cannot say where the light takes me,
where I sail on these seas,
only that you are my destination.

The light brings me to you
and offers me up
in this time that runs short.

Our shrinking minutes
are shaped by your grace,
descending like motes on the sun's last rays.

And in the end -
my journey's maps,
my carrier waves?
They are vast
but hold nothing
when measured against you.

You are my end,
my joy,
my oceans,
my golden hour.

To See Such Light

Beneath the light
that turns me daily towards home,
a strange crucible has formed.

Between tire
and pavement
a collection of fall has consorted
and consents in time
to a mortar and pestle of sorts -
an end which brings
such heartbreaking memory to mind
that I drive not home
but deeper into
remembrance of love's first light
a decade past.

The smell and stain of tannin
has left me marked with you.

I breathe you in again
and out again
and see such light
as the leaves may bring.