How magical is life that I still want to open my palms
breathe the dust, pollen,  

and carry flowers from the fields
to my gentle resting place
How magical that we suffer
but that woe is never us

I am in a field of lilies
collecting flowers–making bundles
I will not come unless I am called

I love you and I want you to flourish
carry that shine in your eyes
I don’t matter how old you are  
smile and feel as light as the day you first entered this world

nine days of prayer
ceaseless for you
as you transmute

“May the light of hope never extinguish” she sent me this and countless other messages right up until two weeks ago. Busy, “ she must be busy” I thought. My first response is always to assume the best.


Her loving arms, that stretched far to hold me with so much warmth. From child to adolescent to adult. I thank her and I grieve her
and I sit
and love her
and I thank her eternally
for helping me see the gentleness that life can always offer
and I grieve our loss
and I love her
and I see her in part of everything I have become

All the Eyes of Eye are walking through the markets
performing a dismounting dance from buses
onto sidewalks
crossing street lights erratically
diagonally tracing their feet over a surface not as impressionable as sand
their gravity given weight: leaving little trace behind

...
The eyes of eye
are born one day, burgeon and transmute
and more eyes open
like lilies replenishing: the eternal spring of consciousness
Each pair of eyes is the Eye
...
It is late now but I have gathered my keys, put on a coat and walked to the corner store to buy Chamomile tea. I close my eyes and feel the cold breeze. One. One other person is walking far off in the distance down the same street as me. I see recognize them and whisper to myself “eyes are I”
...
Her eyes are the same color as mine. You could say she gave them to me–my eyes. I move through the world with them.

It is never ending:
the warble of mystery
and the rebirthing of life
and us with our many eyes.