Shared Heart Moments

The hat,

Proof of his status

As bonafide,

master gardener

protected him from the sun

yet allowed

the veiled eyes

of yellow trees

to watch

as he hiked an unfamiliar path

deep into the forest.

Intoxicated by nature's tonic,

the Maples easily guided him to a mossy bed

of fallen leaves

in which he zestfully reclined

losing track of time

as he bathed

in the colorful crunchy tub

they kindly provided.

frozen pond
a lone skater spins
around the moon

Breezy westbound sky
With tall swaying trees stretching
Tickling puffed white chins

The shapes of love
The way they fill our heart space
Nothing, everything

Shedding its tight sheath,
A snowdrop opens its eyes
To the cold, clear sky

Sequoia and Fern
The forest floor breathes deeply
All souls wide awake

Leaves, red and yellow
While steady rain falls gently
I notice the bliss

I come here to listen, to nestle in the curve of the roots in a soft hollow of pine needles, to lean my bones against the column of white pine, to turn off the voice in my head until I can hear the voices outside it; the shhh of wind in the needles, water trickling over rock, nuthatch tapping, chipmunks digging, beechnut falling, mosquito in my ear, and something more - something that is not me, for which we are never alone. After the drumbeat of my mother’s heart, this was my first language.​

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird –
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,
Which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

What could – what should be done, with all the time that lies ahead of us? Open and unshaped, feather light in its freedom and lead-heavy in its uncertainty? Is it a wish, dreamlike and nostalgic, to stand once again at that point in life, and be able to take a completely different direction to the one which has made us who we are?

Intuition is really a sudden immersion of the soul into the universal current of life, where the histories of all people are connected, and we are able to know everything, because it is all written there.

I don't know what gladness is or where it comes from, this splitting open of the self. It takes me by surprise. Not an awareness of beauty and mystery, but beauty and mystery themselves, flooding into a mind suddenly without boundaries. Can this be gladness, to be lifted by that flood?