There are, here, the makings of a miracle:
a crumbling loaf of bread,
like a body that’s spent its decades in pain,
and two fishes, like searching eyes,
and a field of trampled grass, like a bed, overused.

There is prayer here, of the petitioning sort.
There are promises consulted,
passages from a holy book, quite old.

There are many fathers and mothers here,
watching the dark,
waiting on the sun to plant its feet on the shore.

There are friends here too, and there are partners,
waiting through the night for the miracle to come.

In the grey morning light we see crumbs, unmultiplied,
and the bones of two fishes.

Many are shaking with cold, everyone is hungry.

The pleats of mist lift and our eyes turn to the morning star,
some believe it’s Jesus, some think it’s Venus.

The daily clouds arrive. Venus disappears.

Some of us linger, wait another day, some waver,
call ourselves the dearly deserted.

Some blame themselves.
Perhaps there’s something we’ve done, or failed to do.

Some stay faithful, encourage one another: explain
that miracles happen, but just out of range.

The rest of us hoist each other’s burdens,
link arms and start back for town.

 

While every anthophilous (frequenter of flowers) loves an April,
I slump sad to know the frailty of such things,
and to know that within every pistil, stamen, or human,
lies an everlasting contradiction
of coming and going.
The last days of this glad April
may yet turn to wet winter,
the sallow window light coming through the trees
says there’s trouble in the neighbour’s house,
the perfect stillness of this sunrise over the gulf island
will rage, in time, by fire or flood,
or war — that demon, stupidly thought distant.
But what of it?
Why spend an April, month of poetry no less,
bracing yourself, as though testing the strength of a Taser?
This habit of mind, this fret, almost a craft,
steeling, preparing, for the worst,
what’s it cost?
True, the mind’s nature is to plan and so prevent,
to perceive and so invent.
But what of the soul?
Can the mind, through its preoccupations, starve the soul,
sever itself from the heart and claim a supreme and secure domain?
Can the soul’s reception of a force beyond itself,
soften the heart and renew the mind?
Does shame constrict the intellect, does forgiveness enlarge it?
and resurrect the heart’s first instinct?
If wars within, finally end, would all things change
out there? O Mercy.

Weary with thought, I laid down by a daffodil,
and while the morning dripped away, and the grass creased my face,
there appeared, approaching, one who might have been a gardener,
dark-moon face and sun-pierced feet and lanterns for eyes,
who saw the hollows that worry’s erosion had made in me,
then said to me, rise,
and with the flat of her rake struck my shoulder,
and what rang out were notes of dismay and remorse,
dejection and joy, surrender and grace,
swirling, entwining, transfiguring,
singing me into a reckless wholeness:
          praise song and Singer,
          praise April’s trip to May,
          praise every month, these years, this life, the stunning frailty,
          praise all newborn babies, praise our deep-creased faces, praise
          the medicine of purring pigeon, shrieking peahen, silent falcon,
          praise the breeze, now visible in the dance of daffodils, mirrored
          in lily-clouded sloughs, praise the greens going gold
          and the rust-gilded hills ebbing at the rim of earth,
          praise the sun, the gardener, the nearing gleaner.
So long April, you dark beauty, perhaps we’ll meet again.

 

I think of a friend who eats out of sorrow,
then, forgets to eat, out of grief.

She sits alone in her bedroom,
like a desert sparrow,
like an owl in a biblical wilderness.

This is us
writing to say, please,
                              don’t go early out of this world.

And by that we mean to add no guilt, as though you needed more
night,
and no bargaining,
as though to purchase your ongoing presence
with the spectre of our absence.

All we’re saying, is, we recall the fragrance of our easy engagements,
how yesterday, just the thought of your company brightened our hearts,
how even the sand and the shells and the stones
thrilled in your walking,
how a flower opened for your blessing.

Your sullen eyes feel wrong now.
But this is no parody of you, this is you,
here, now, with your pain,
your blinds drawn shut to keep out more loss.

And this is us, understanding as best we can, and saying,
there are no opinions here, no audit of your heartache,
and whether weeping at the brink of day, or
sitting at dusk holding yourself,
or groaning or eating or not eating —
your anguish will not go unheard.

These are our feet, arriving,
these are the ears of our hearts, listening,
these are our arms healing around you,
telling you in touch, remembering for you,
all the way down to your broken heart,
the concert of your spirit,
the flight of your inner monarch
your own perfect loveliness.