Bridge

Dear ones, what is it we are after on this bridge, in the frozen solitudes? What simple act of kindness will bind us forever? What is it that might solve us, absolve us? What radiant glimmering now gone?   How shall we survive the tempest that swirls around our...

No one turned away for lack of funds

for Mary Oliver Everyone has their teachers, I think to myself this morning as I notice you have dedicated your small great book of poems to James Wright.   We are all in each other’s debt, all filled with this inconstant music— inherited vocables, lost...

Sonata

Feast your eyes on the gold and silver of the morning light in these trees, your ears on the rhythmic drumming of the woodpecker, the funny laughter of some little bird snickering like a mischievous boy.   This is the balm of morning, its healing salve,...

Prayer

“I can lean the flame in my heart into your life and turn all that frightens you into holy incense ash.”    —Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky   The poem is a prayer— tendril, wind machine, shimmer, plough— how we cling   to the words, little paupers, poor...

The World as Art

This morning dried flowers scattered on the porch. One yellow dandelion pokes through a hole in the side of a metal can ­– humor irony beauty reclaiming the world once again – so simply.   The day is cooler but has the warm dry smell of summer. The wind an...

The Grieving and the Dying

The grieving and the dying just go on and on. It’s amazing what a life they have, this life of loss.   Neither right nor wrong, this fucking heart. Who knew the story would be all about pain?   Who knew you’d be asked to give everything, then give...