Sunday, June 1, 2014


In early summer the moon with no ambition comes.

The moon that wants nothing passes slowly through the sky.

Passes slowly through the sky and grows still.

And the violets beneath the blackberry bushes are beautiful and not beautiful.

And the trillium in the forest and the dandelion by the road.

The bluets come to ask about my anger, ask about my fear.

The bluets come to ask about my grief.

And when I kneel to answer she is there.

And when I rise without clarity and yet untroubled she is there.

She does not speak.

She does not ask me to speak.

In the morning we walk to the slow-flowing brook.

At dusk we walk to the brook.

When the dragonflies come she holds a finger out to welcome them.

When the hawks sail high overhead she stops, folds her arm and bows before the sky.

This grace.

This breath of holiness.

Do you see, she says at last, how the sacred envelope widens to allow the message to find the ears that are ready at last to hear?

So my dreams fill with light, each ray filtered through a tear-shaped prism.

And the moon, and moonlight, and what is passing, and what does not pass, ever.

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