1
it is not like
god could wait
while we
wove cloth
of hope and flax,
a seasons growing
to make the
warp and weft
of prayer.
2
thirteen ravens
flew the sky,
i don’t remember
why i counted.
3
there was no predicting
the turning of the wheel
yet i held the lucky number
sticky in church fair hand
waving it wildly
waist high to the crowd
waiting to claim my prize.
4
i cut the cloth
to fit the bed
that i intend
to lie in.
actually – i ripped it.
measured folded
measured again
small snip, then
rip.
not the screech
of ripping cotton
but a soft linen purr.
somewhere in this cloth
blue flowers sighed
and caught the sun.
5
eight swallows
sun bright
on the wire
speak of counting
the cooling weeks.
6
i tasted oak
in this morning’s mushroom
picked roadside on my
travels and grilled.
i tasted oak and quiet roots
and the weaving of unseen threads
tying me to the land.
you eat me
and i eat you,
said the tree.
7
some days
a black dog
long way from dream
walks idly along the road
and i forget to breathe
while the hairs on my arms
rise.
8
more white
than evening has eyes for
the wings of the egret
for a moment after landing
remain open, holding air
while her feet remember
her body is earth.
9
i saw the city
like a bubble once
dazzling, evening light
reflecting from every glass
and steel surface.
stretched iridescent
around nothing at all,
an illusion of solidity.
transient.
10
late light
cuts deep shadows
through the fat translucence
of vygie leaves,
revealing the sour figs
we knew we would find
opaque with ripeness
and seed.
11
let these deeds
the walking of this prayer
become habit,
prayer shawl
and rosary.
let it be reminder
on the days
that we forget.
12
we threw the
bones before
we came here,
cast the stones,
gave of our blood
to hear the voice
of the oracle ,
all of us.
we knew this
would happen,
all of it.
and yet
even through
the dry years
our bodies ache
for the memory
of rain.
13
now these grasses
go to seed
arced in an
ecstasy
of evening light.
Reposted for Earthweal open link weekend #23
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