A voice inside asks:
Did the sun rise again?
Another asks:
What of it,
doesn’t it always?
And so the dialogue goes.
The mind is a swamp.
Some days are bright.
Some days ****.
Yet being alive
is worth something.
What?
Did the sun rise again?
Are the flowers pretty?
Are there birds flying?
Are there clouds in the blue sky?
Be quiet.
Thank them.

While reading the morning paper
by the garden
I saw a monarch fly by
and land among the dahlias
where the argiope
was displayed.
Neither a democrat nor
a republican she belonged
to a different genus,
once worm now butterfly.
But for the argiope
her genus was food.
Though she and the argiope,
for me, were works of art.
Both exquisite
to be sure.
Things of beauty and wonder.
But nature has her own way.

I followed ways of where
and travelled  thens of when
and I thought I knew.

I climbed ups of if
and waited alones of there
and I believed I saw.

My young felt close to gold
as close as life to love
and love I felt I had.

Then you came unintended
with heres of where
and nows of when.

You were yous of who
and forevers of how long.
You are gold of have.

and love of be.

It’s been 50 years
Since she said: ”I do”.
Since then I’ve spent,
maybe a month’s time, waiting.
I don’t wear make-up
or have much hair to fix.
And my clothes are
conservative.
So much of my education
came while waiting for her.
I’ve learned to slow down
and think about why
I’m always in a hurry,
and why I always have to
be doing something,  
why just being is being lazy,
why thinking is wasting time,
why using my senses
to observe what surrounds me
isn’t important,
why reading a book
is less important
than doing something,
in short,
why waiting
is wasting time.
All that took
maybe a month
in 50 years.

I didn’t have to climb.
The mountain came to me.
I heard of a man who hit the lottery
and was set for life.
But that is nothing
compared to what happened to me
on the mountain.
What I saw and learned
no mind can grasp,
no heart can deny.
So I know it and I don’t know it.
But I can’t deny it.
What can I say?
Who would hear it?
I would be drowned out
by common sense
and hard hearts.
So should I hide the light?
What I saw
would set the world free.
It would be full of love.
There would be heaven on earth.
The light I saw is power.
Am I a part of the world or not?
Was the light just for me?
Those are the questions.
For what it’s worth
I’ll hide the light no more!

I think our souls have a name.
Mine is Jack.  
But when I went to school they called me John.
Since then that’s how it’s been.
John’s the name on my law license.
It fits the clothes I wear
better than they fit me.
That’s not the way it was when I was Jack.
Today, if someone calls me Jack
we are family.
I’m a child again.
The world is innocent.
All the badness goes away.
Someday I hope God will say:
“Welcome home, Jack.”

It isn’t just words.
It’s a person in the desert
thirsting for water and drinking it in.
It’s an empty bucket dipping into a stream to be filled.
It’s a shallow space allowing itself to grow.
It’s a root seeking loam.
and a wanderer coming home.