Soul and Body

How beautiful the ribbon that ties the human flesh to human soul,
the scarlet cord, strong and vibrant, sure and firm.
How lovely that the moon pulls on the water and on our hearts.
That the sun opens our eyes and our minds.
That the mountains support our feet and lift our dreams.

How apt that the seasons tell not only the stories of our harvests
but the stories of our lives.
How fitting that the rain washes and washes away.

No wonder it is so hard for the spirit, at the end, to fly away on its own.

On my Ceiling

It's late. And I'm restless.
It's warm, and I'm tangled in the sheet.
One last yearning look toward heaven
and an unspoken prayer with unclosed eyes.
The ceiling, a barrier of silence.
All is darkness, darkness until
a flicker of light breaks into my universe.
Suddenly the ceiling becomes the heavens
and a stranded firefly
becomes the stars.

Measuring Love

I am a wealthy woman.
Waking late to see the face of a man I've loved since I was barely a woman.
Listening to the birds sing to me while I drink a cup of coffee on the deck.
Singing with 350 fellow pilgrims and feeling connected in our need and our needs met.
Telephone calls from family across the country.
Hugs and laughter and smiles from young friends who don't care that I'm older and shorter and fatter than they are.

Despite the times my heart aches for something that seems to be missing,
I know my life is richer than I have a right to be.
How can we measure love when our hearts keep overflowing?

June 25. My Aunt Grace's 99th birthday. Yesterday I sat with her as she chattered away, happily, incomprehensibly. She is beautiful even when I don't have any idea what she is thinking or saying.

Here is a poem I wrote this morning. I wasn't thinking about her at the time. Or maybe I was.


It was a hard rain

The kind where the sky turns
dark without warning and
the trees bend to a wind that
rose without being invited.
The raindrops fell with a roar
that reminds things below that
they are, well,
below
the heavens.
It was a hard rain.

The kind where the corn, afterwards,
looks like it was in a fight
where it knew it was right
but took a beating anyway.

Where the peas that were
just past their prime
gave up the ghost and decided
they had suffered more than most
and died overnight.

Where even the potatoes in deep earth
felt the rumbling, the pounding,
the angry stomping over their heads.
It was a hard rain.

The kind that draws out
the music of the heart,
the beating of the human drum--
let it come.
let it come.