Sometimes,
when the Divine
enters your Heart

It’s like a failed love
showing up on
your doorstep

with promises
to resolve all
bad feelings.

But more often,
it’s a stray cat
crossing your threshold:

she rushes past you
and heads
straight
for
the
milk,

As though she had lived there
all along.

There’s a hermit in me
and a flying god too.
And a dancer, who dances on the bones
of his lovers…
gently dancing life into them.

There’s a liar in me
and a repentant thief too.
Who tried to stuff precious moments
into his pockets…

There’s a handsome man in me,
bold, strong, and true.
There’s a woman in me too…
delicately twisting in her sleep.
And somewhere, there’s still a small boy
who can’t find the right size shoes.

There are rules in me that have no purpose…
small print in search of a home.
And there’s a warrior in me
who plays the harp before battle,
then rushes late into the fray.

There are tapestried walls in me
and marble halls,
formal gardens,
and servant’s chambers.
And there’s a simple cottage
I can’t quite find.

There’s a psychic in me
who reads the future
but is sometimes unable
to turn the page.
And there’s a mysterious poet in me
who finds words only at night.

And there’s a seeker of truth
who gets
lost
in
the
snow.

I have been thinking a lot about the mysteries
that are women

and what those gardens contain.
I see them as large and varied:
part cultivated and part wild,
but always beautiful;
colorful and with plants of different textures, heights, and scents.

Some who have entered a woman's garden
prefer to stick to one tiny area…
I prefer to roam freely to discover all that is within.

There are meandering paths
with unexpected benches
inviting one to rest.
And there is always water…
gently lapping
at the side of the path.

The forests that contain the mystery of men
have magic and enchantment about them,
but they are often invisible
to the undeveloped eye.

But once entered,
they are striking.

Within, there are purposeful paths
but also whispered invitations to strike out
in an unchartered direction.
There is water here, too…
loud, rushing water.
And amazingly,
very deep within,
but almost impossible to find,
is
another
garden.

I dress slowly and carefully.
I hate to rush on those days.
I pull my socks up with care,
Sprinkle some powder on my body,
A little aftershave.
It’s almost a ritual now.
I look at the black pants
And step into them.
As I do, things change.
I become what I am about to do.

I put on the stiff shirt,
Loving the elegance,
At least for that day.
Then the vest and tie.
I usually have a little trouble
With these and the cuff links.
The cuff links remind me that
I am alone.
How strange that fingers so skilled
And virtuosic would fumble
With these cuff links.
I wish there were someone
Who could help.

The jacket comes last.
Then I am ready.
I always think the
Same thing when I
leave my house:
I think
The next time I walk through
The door, I will have done it.
But several times I’ve been wrong.
I had forgotten something and
Had to rush back.

I always try to plan enough
Time, but it seems that I
Never do.
I would like a little more time
To get ready before walking out.

I have gratitude for the people who have
Come to hear me.
I feel
Love for them.
I am no longer afraid.