It was the next day
after I saw her walking down the hall
with pain still etched on her face
that my anger began to give way to remorse
the erosion of my ego
together with an almost divine spark of mercy
finally led me to seek her out, face her,
and say “I’m sorry honey for raising my voice to you.”
She looked at me, the tension in her face gone,
smiled and said, “I’m sorry too.”
At that moment we were together
in a small peaceful, glorious
and powerful
space in the universe.

She was never that close to her mama
who wished her kids independent
but there was the day mama taught her to drive
out in the field where the only thing to hit
was the single large oak in the middle of the pasture.

The old stick shift was a challenge
requiring all the coordination of legs and arms
the teenager could muster.
Then mama left her alone there to practice
and she was glad being by herself,
the intimacy of learning to drive with mama made her uneasy.

Being sixteen and able to drive
a turning point for her
able now to get away from home
to find boys with her friend gave them a thrill -
adulthood’s first stirrings.

They searched for dance halls
where Cajun musicians played
fiddles, accordions and washboards
and she danced the two-step
and boys showed off their moves.

Her mama gave her a rite of passage
with those driving lessons
cut her loose into a wider world
where she would go to India
have her first baby
and practice loving her children
into their own adulthood.

I was hoping for sun
to brighten my mood
and wake me up this day.

But shades of gray
hang heavy on the horizon
ground wet from last night’s rain.

That’s life.

I remember my days of black and white
easy answers cut and dry, clear and bright
lines dark and sure
with me of refined mind
up on ground moral and high.

But I have become fond of gray
where friends with their faults
and me with mine stay
in love anyway.

Give me lowly, mushy earth
where seeds break open
with verdant birth.

Yes, please give me a day
with shades of gray.

Isn’t it strange
how in this brief exchange
of the creative impulse
we gain
a certain kind of intimacy
with each other
yet we never
smell each other
shake hands
breathe the same air
put up with personal idiosyncrasies
and off-putting voice inflections –
all the things our friends and loved ones have to.

Yet here we occupy hearts and minds
many of our friends and loves do not know
with such closeness, interiority, and connectedness.

What a strange and magnificent gift!

I love to hang out here with you
in this room
where your green bodies
stand up
point to the sky
face the light.
In your soil
my life is renewed
my spirit takes root each day
in your silence
being here a prayer without words.

May I re-learn each morning
to move from my darkness
and face the light with you.

It is so easy to leave you
to get lost
in the garbage
fix the sink
watch the cowboys and chiefs
cut the grass, rake the leaves
shop for milk and eggs
exercise my arms and legs
take out the trash
pick up the mail
and a thousand other details.

It’s so easy to leave you
to get lost in the garbage
and before I’m through
we’ve drifted apart
and all I had to do
was sit down and start
to look into your eyes
speak from my heart
listen to you
and hang on your words.

Together take a walk
forget the clock
listen and talk
laugh a bit
maybe even cry
just you and I.

And before long
there we are again
we made it
that’s all we had to do
just be
me and you.

Vines and their tributaries
climb the wall overtake
and name of our neighborhood:
hidden canyon.

Four decades ago
we explored the woods
and found the rocky canyon
etched into the landscape by ten mile creek.
Our limbs were limber
muscles young and strong
adventure coursed in our veins.

But now no woods
just houses and streets
our jaunts into the wild
with woodsy small creatures and critters
are gone.

The mystery we found there
now supplanted by novels, poems and stories
of children, young explorers and writers
and I traverse the thicket
of my small universe
searching the hidden canyons of
mystics, dreamers and poets,
combing a terrain deeply inscribed
by the hand of the divine.