For All the Saints
How did I wind up inside this monumental chapel with no polite way out? My thoughts float above rows of red and yellow chairs filling with people I’ve met. Relaxed on the dark stairs I watch how we all cough and shuffle when the hymn starts. I have come to feel happy. When I make small talk, the lady in black and white moves away. I spread out. Before I wandered in I was admiring my own name, carved in marble with the others.
Walking Out After Rain
How many times has it broken me, this notion of perfect love? The oaks in the park grow separately though roots twine below, branches above. Under the gleam of the trees, dark branches are still raining, the sound of the water has become a sudden rush of the tide. I am lifted up onto a wide ocean of love. I am some boat with sails swelling and straining. I am the breeze.
The Magic Show in the
Winter oak branches toss their nets up high and capture the sky. Small pieces escaping down through become goblets in our hands, glazed blue, or ragged white handkerchiefs that vanish, unravelling or mirrors in which when we insist on searching for something in our eyes that doesn’t die we find only sky.