Broken-bodied
woman. Broken,
body-ed woman...

Broken bodied woman,
please, 

reclaim
your pelvic
throne.

You needn't shield 
your breast from
the suckle-ing world.

Broken
Bodied
woman, sweet,
kiss the tears
of those crackle-ing
bones,

let your blood draw its desperate
and regular
breath 
from an ache

for the 
sacred 
twin flame.
 
Broken bodied
woman, release

this hot and tender heart
- complete - 
to the world 
that will break
til it opens.

Let your mind nuzzle up
in the arms of the ones
who can rest in the lap
of your alchemy.

Broken-bodied woman, child, 
Step again
toward the hum 
of your own song of grace.

Limp your way
toward the seeds 
that will teach you
to pray
for the tears, sweat, and care 
that can move you 
to break
​
for the loving that holds us together.

Full moon fills the orchard
as the arms of the fruit-bearers
bathe in her grace,

letting go for the night
of their hardened gnarling
they open stomata
and cambial throats

and a bright choral hum
fills the Gravenstein air
with a praising so sweet
it makes waves of her light

and it tickles the wildflowers
wiggling below while they 
waft their own loving 
like notes for the nose,

and I find myself bending 
and offering breath from the moon
in my vibrating nectar-filled chest

as we bask in the radiance
of pure reflection.

It started with pancakes.
There was syrup, of course.

Then dancing the rust
off this gangly form,

and alchemical singing with sisters
of soul, turning parts into wholes
we’d forgotten.

Alone in the bookstore
I stuffed pockets with poems --
with those prayers that affirm:
we are NEVER alone.

Coming home to a sky crisp with
smiling moon and a heavenly spread
of God’s favorite bling,
I’m reminded how sparks
like to dance.

I enter my cottage
light in bone and in heart,
with tingling ears and a gleaming eye
and a mouth undecided

on shouting or singing or
whispering psalms,

or silently drinking
the cold night air.

Like returning alone to a quiet home,
or contentment’s secret belly.

How twilight bleeds into formless night,
the warmth of a wantless smile.
​
A shoulder even love can lean on,
the silent heart of all pursuit.

It may first seem arduous,
awful, strange

to slow your self down
after doing all day,

after all of that action
toward distant ends.

But just sit, just a while,
just a few fragile moments --

you will hear how the birds
can hold all of your busy,

you might notice the light
yield its need to be seen,

or the plants, softly 
humming from tender hearts

as your body remembers
more proximal means,
​
and deftly attunes
to the choir.

Breathing, 
in a way that says 
"yes, this is it!" as the scone 
listens in from it's perch on the plate
and the chai cup sits pretty 
on saucer throne - 
basking in knowing
her heart has been won
by a spice on the tongue and 
sweet lines in the blood and the 
dreaming of someone's remembering lips 
while these swells keep unfurling 
like furtive smiles
on the warm pearly shores
​of belly.

A life constructed
for entertainment. 

Somehow, this 
has just been
revealed. 


Meanwhile,
the crickets. 

Meanwhile,
the half eaten fruit
on the desk. 

Meanwhile
that mad magic 
of texting. 


From this place
I do something brand new
in the bath. 

Don’t know why,
body moves,
face below,
bubbles blow. 

Surprises arise,
just like this. 

I make something new
in the pot on the stove. 

Don’t know how,
body moves,
seaweed sways,
bubbles boil. 

Fresh ginger adds kick,
just like this.


Now I look in the mirror 
for a place to call home

and her body
sways softly, 
like whoa,
like a picture,

like awareness
with nowhere to go.  

I was surprised to find it helped somehow
to walk a stretch outside my comfort zone - 
to tread a quiet lane at the top of the hill
that I hadn’t ever noticed.

I was relieved to discover a vantage point
where no dogs barked at my trespassing heart
and I could see the arms of this lowland town - 
the hug of mountains and the rose-cheeked sky saying
‘yes, you belong here too’.

Work to do, 
people to love,
worlds to explore here

both inside and out
in this blessedly
sensate body.

The men in the park
finger smooth falling jazz
while my fingers transcribe

this small poem. They sing:
“I've got the blues",
but I don’t believe them.

Not today. Not now,
with that life-hugging trumpet
and dignified bass,

with these rapturous
trees, and the light
bursting brazen

from every shadow,
including their black eyes
and mine.

It might just be that time again,
  when the pothos is ready
     for pruning.

The tender greens are not
   to be snapped at —  

   we must wait
               for each leaf
   to give sign. 

Each will sigh and surrender
 to withering brown,   'til the stem
   can release
                         without pain — 

like little fibrous umbilical cords
left to fall
                    into grace
                                      after birth,
 

After many moons of burning love, 
  each
               fragment of jungle
  finds
      amber
          descent,       in the rightness
                              of natural timing. 

Let us harvest these
                                        exhales
like prayers
                        in our hands, so

          between us 

                  the wind 

              might sing.