It is a courageous and rare thing:
to stand in the middle of a crowded marketplace
or a city street
or a throbbing festival
or an ecstatic congregation
or a close-knit family
and to hear oneself only
to be able to decipher one’s still small voice
from amongst others
who speak, call, cry, yell, laugh, dream out loud

Blue black night is a blanket
That wraps its weight around
The shoulders of all who wait for something...
Something...to be born
What they bear is the silence of in between time
Attending has begun
Ordinary has passed
Watching for what soon arrives

Losing, gaining...which?
Departing, arriving...which?
Blinded, seeing...which?
Mad, lucid...which?
Repeating, progressing...which?
Falling, rising...which?
False, true...which?
All. All.

What will happen when I construct a fence around my heart?

Wire, steel poles, and cement have been lying dormant
But today I gather my hammer,
my work gloves,
and my balance.

I woke before dawn
done with it all
As numb and fogged over
as the waning Georgia moon.
Bending morning muscles
beneath a canopy
of mountain laurel and oak,
I hear her rambling
toward Sautee-Nacoochee.
She came from
last night’s rainstorm
across Yonah mountain.
Residual daughter
of eruption and fire.
She persists westward
with eyes fixed on Atlanta.
Even as she is hushed
and nearly imperceptible,
She is deft and dodging
Face-first against moss and stone
and branches caked with
fallen leaves.
With resigned determination
She presses forward
To some final arrival.
By tomorrow morning,
even before light breaks
she will spill herself whole
into the Chattahoochee River.
Restored and still
at last.

Seblé tells me gursha, hand feeding
Follows the Ethiopian saying
those who eat from the same plate will not betray each other
Good, clean hands reach for small bowls
Containing the messy wonder
Of curried chicken, potatoes, beans, and lamb in berbere sauce
Injera strains to hold back lentils and spicy beef
Already spilling onto happy nervous fingers
Unaware that this meal will soon be difficult to swallow
We reach faithfully for connection
And towards wide-opened mouths

To tell the truth
Always
Whatever slivers of it you can express
Hoping that bits and pieces
Equal up to a whole you can
take a risk on
suffer a loss for
It takes love and courage
To bear the truth
and its consequences

The hardest part now is walking alone
through this forest
No sound but my characteristic steps
Naïve, exposed and barefooted
I walk alone
Over each unforeseen hill
Around each unknowable bend
Into and out of each sunken valley
Through each tree-choked thicket
For each and every hurt and hope within me
I walk alone
Towards the bright and open field
That must surely lie before me
I met you once at the trail head
We walked some distance together
Onto the cedar pathway
I do wonder now
Which map you carried

There comes that moment
When the noise falls away
And the clock slows its keeping
There comes that moment
When color loses its distinction
And others merge undecipherable
There comes that moment
When past and future collapse
And real differences go silent
There comes that moment
When spirit rises above reason
And wonder surprises routine
There comes that moment
When limits, rules, expectations
Succumb to louder voices
There comes that moment
When hidden is unveiled
And eyes hold tight the recognition
Of you
Of me
Inching towards Us

Looking through old photographs
I recognize the tomboy
Carefree in cut-off shorts
Hair full and uncombed
“Tube” socks cresting knees
Shirt off, washing the car
Basketball, glove, stick, skateboard
Rock collection
Aluminum can collection
Devoid of pink
Chubby arms thrown around the shoulders of friends
Unknown and unexplored inside

I love that little girl
I love her confident capability
I love her authentic tenderness
I love her astute eyes
I love the way her lips pout
Only to (surprise!) give up a smile
I love the muscularity of her body and her imagination
I love her fierce spirit
I love her innocent devotion
I love her pure thoughtfulness
I love the way she simmers and erupts

When wildness is blooming beneath her
Gathering “trust in herself” is as alien
As the boys on her street
And just about as unnecessary

A turn of phrase
A slight of hand
The wool pulls over me
You work real hard
And shuffle round
These words so I can’t see
This “friend” is yes a lover
This “touch” is yes a tease
This “love” is just your version  
Of doing what you please