Theology of the Woods

In the cathedral of forest

red-robed mushroom monks

and pine needle priests

teach her the Buddha’s

truth of transience.

Halos of ferns unfolding

from weeping decay

preach to her of the

second life in Christ.

And in the place where they say

God dwells, she found only

a hard bench, who said

he was, in his youth,

a holy cedar.

Field Guide

I wish I had learned your names better,

but you don’t mind, do you?

Is it better

if I can call you,  yellow creeping petals,

your Latin name?

Mostly, the names of flora reek of scientific sterility.

A weightless white skirt

lifts among the prairie grass,

and is slandered: erect bindweed.

But look at the grace

of this vapor of veined petals

filtering the morning sun.

Patience

If I let go of this skin

let the water rush in

I’ll be patient this time

I’ll swim with its tide

If I let go of this skin

let the earth move in

I’ll be patient this time

I’ll listen like the pines

If I let go of this skin

let the sky fill in

I’ll be patient this time

in the dark and the light

I will let go of this skin

let the love flow in

I’ll be patient this time

you’ll be by my side

Calling

Rilke said one is a poet

if the soul withers without writing.

They say this about

any calling of the heart.

I wonder after mine-

what is my daily bread?

At times, I think it is to walk-

to let my feet pray

to  that blessed soil,

to let my thoughts

be swallowed in

the meditation of each small thing

that presents on the path.

Only then can I sit to write.

Only then can I teach

the lessons I have learned.

October in Rukubji

The larch said yes,

though maybe she still

gripped her green needles of youth

that would necessarily change.

Her neon display of faith

flames amid the safety of evergreen.

These brave limbs:

the glory of the fall.