As we grow, our hair falls out,
we gain weight and wrinkles,
and lose elasticity in joints and skin,
and walk somewhat slower, sometimes.

If we were made of velveteen, perhaps we would get patched,
and we would be left outside in the rain
and grow some mildew if not discovered for a while.

But we are much more than a beloved thing.
We are spirit with body;
human with connection to divine.
We are made to last a long, long, long, long time.

Those moments when I experienced
a tip-toed look over the edge of the world—
those moments had me fooled, as if
nothing mattered but fear, as if
I had only this one long breath, or lack of breath,
and this mountain down which I looked—
which would not move.
So I felt. So I believed.

Now here I am, meandering down each mountain,
and wondering more about who is here with me
than whether
I can push through
to take that first step down.

Yes, sometimes my lungs ache when I breathe,
and still
I breathe.

Come follow me to the simple brightness.

Here we touch the very foot—
the *****, dusty sandal with toes that know the ache
of long, long days’ walks,
whose very feet walked in your shoes and my shoes and all
worlds’ shoes, not stopping, but stooping
to write in the dust for us.

Come be with me as we eat with him,
walk with him,
sleep out in the open with him
and know so little of wealth
or prestige or understanding.

Come stand with me as we face death. Here are his eyes
seeing every single thing
and loving beyond the dark abyss.

How can I do less?
And, yet, how can I do anything?

I live because You live in me.
I breathe because You breathe in me.
I see, I hear, I love, I understand,
because You are the one
who brings me heart—generous and whole heart,
all here, all alive, all held in love,
only, only love that stands and moves
with ease to hold open arms
that never before got full.

And now
I bring You grief for loss
that I cannot make right.
I bring You fury that cannot
remove the sting of exploitation.

Holy One, sometimes my prayers are

mostly

tears.

Looking out,
way, way out over the distant hills
and valleys
and trees
and seemingly endless greens of
fields and cared-for land
for small living things,
I hold my gaze out
over all this earth
and see the sky,
loving blue and clouded with layers
as deep and rich
as the green below.

I raise my hands
and sing.

I sing out to all the living things,
for all that lives,
and all that hears and comprehends, and some thought dumb,
they still respond. For they are loved—
with love springing up!/out!/in!
they open life-eyes in song.

I sing and sing and sing
to all and in all and over all
and under and through and beyond
because the song is love
and because I am loved
and love.

The wealth of good is here
where we are never done,
where we are always here
and now
and listening as we sing,
and joining in the other songs
of all that is here,
so much, much here,
that ever lives and grows
and bends and flows
because
because of love.

This is the edge of saying goodbye and hello.
I know
this is the edge
of all that was then and what will yet be
and what I don’t know.

I weep and I smile, shaking my head
with the wonder of why—
why is it that I get to know
this edge of goodbye and hello?

You-me who is here and is waving my hand
at the me-you coming out of the blue,
says to me, all of me, I am here, waiting for you—
and here is my heart, it has grown so that you
can grow, too.

I weep and I smile and look up and
beyond these cornered, grey walls.
Way up there and right down here,
you are here with all that I breathe.
For you are right here with all these—
all of these me.
The yesterdays and the yet-will-be’s.
You
are here with all me.

I see you, hidden.
I hear you, silent.

There—your face.
Your hollowed eyes.
See me see you.
See your heart.
Kind eyes.

Summer bloom
cracks doors of
chill.

I know.
I feel the wind sigh out,
smell the cold,
see the death inside.

Tattered blanket
***** and breaks and flies away.
And out you climb,
out to early day.

I have cut worms in half.
I have put them on hooks
and cast them into the water.

“That is love that wastes a life,”
I thought.
“I will NOT be cut in half.”

But I have seen deserts where little grows.
And that is love that is not

not
willing to
be cut in half when the lover dies.

I walk toward you,
afraid to love you.

So much for cynicism
that says this poem
is for narcissists.
I am pushing against a gale
to
write with my skin
what it is like
to not be alone,
and then,
to be willing to
be,
at the end,
alone.

But not alone.

Maybe to love so much
that missing you
means being cut in half...
is worth it.
Maybe love like that
doesn’t ****.
Maybe it revives.

The People, my people,
loss so great
savors havoc,
hemorages my skin.

Grabbed my sister,
grabbed my nephew,
harries my children...

Howl wide-mouthed
broken toothed,
water-eyed,
feral in my den.

Creator dances,
dances, dances,
dies yet does not die,
shattering these sins,
whirls and steps in battle,
catches my heart’s groan,
knits bone with song,
joys soul in soul,
for life wars:
wins.

Touching your warm skin,
buttercream.
Nestling arm over arm,
closeness dear.

No matter that we argued
whether I brought in the mail or not;
you need more than you acknowledge;
or staying home with the boys is more
important than getting to church on time.

You are my bridge to Other,
I am your human sounding board—
so much more than hollowed wall.

And we,
soft breaths on snow,
swirl round all truth
and find again
its name
is love.

So much of those stars
is just bright lights
until you sincerely gaze at each
and on and on,
and cannot see them all.
So many stars.

So many ones. So many lives.
So many points of terror,
loss,
so many hopes extinguished,
nightmares drawn.

You cannot count them all.
So many stars.

But do not turn away.

Should you turn away,
you close your heart to beauty
burned from torment wells.
Beauty shaped molten lava into
dancing porous stones, brilliant black shards
and nothing lost.

Dances on, outpouring
comfort stones.
All things left here,
waiting on the something more
that we shall gaze into
to see the stars.