Today I knew my life so far
has been a mouse in the grass hiding.
There have been times I dared to cross
a patch of open ground
Where the sun fell on my so brightly
or the rain so softly
that I could not bear to be so radiant.
I have been hiding in my grass-stalk world,
and calling it living.

But now I know
I am the larger self as well as the small
I am the conciousness of rock and swamp,
of fire, eagle, mouse, and grass-stalk,
of all the great abundant earth.

I know through me she sings, creates, loves, grieves
when i hid in the grass I hid from myself.
I know my grief is deep.

I listen to Elders who know how to welcome their grief
They know when they hold it
grief is one face of deep, healing love.

The gleanings of a hiding mouse cannot meet my needs
for life's sweetness, its peace, pleasures, and joy.
This small hoard of treasures cannot compare
to expressing the gifts I am given to share.

The plans I scratched into the dust will fade .  .  .
I can shrug away the straps that hold me to what was
and release the baked clay banks ahead
The first gift I can give in any moment
is to be there.

At the traffic light I looked down
and saw you
a scrap of white fluttering by my shoe.
I opened my hands to you and cupped them
over one another and thought
I was carrying your heart:
astonishing, lovely, tentatively fluttering
I whispered between my hands to you
that i had found a beautiful place
a hedge blooming with flowers.
A perfect bower for your moth-heart.

Carole King and crickets
tonight i'm scrubbing the day's labor and auras of others from my feet
and breaking my heart all over again reading love poetry
and Grandma's Keats she will have me read at her funeral

Looking in the mirror tonight

I am 24 years old

I don't know what to make of myself
Pointed chin, seashell ears, hair wet and arcing
forwards from my shower

I'm wondering about my 25th year;
will it be a year of wonders, a golden year?
My left eye says no

It's distrustful, mirrored and shuttered
so all you get back is yourself
endlessly

There's a siren and a dog howling counterpoint:
seems omenish

My right eye looks more hopeful,
like it'll wink conspirationally at any moment

Better to have a star for an eye than the moon,
anyday.

While you were sleeping
the roses bloomed
I stood in my singlet
to serenade the moon

While you were hiding
I heard the noise
of the restless flutterings
of our lost joys

While you were drifting
I restored the sun
I looked for your shadow
But there wasn't one

You were drifting, through all the noon
Yeah you were hiding, you heard no tune
Once i wanted to show it all to you
And still you're sleeping, you'll never see the moon

I smell. . . .
horse ****.
It's less offensive than the
*******
i've been seeing lately
They say it with their
hands, mouths, eyes
Desperate offences in defence of the indefensible

Tonight i sat in a safe space
where we clicked to show our appreciation
Heard resonations of clicking when a poet spoke words
that darted through our foreheads
And lit something there.

We knew the responses:
"This is new ****"            
NEEEEEEEWWWW ****?!
Clap the poet, not the points
the points are not the point

We knew we were offered

hearts

more than words

Their rhythms and awakenings,
arrhythmias, overflowings, and
midnight ponderings.

So we put our own into our palms
and beat them together for every poet
who dared to touch that microphone
to their chest.