dawn chorus

words don’t come
to speak you
though i sit here
drinking this jubilation
watching leaf shadows
turn to jewel birds
as morning takes the hill
takes me,
washes the gushing
of the season
in light only flowers can speak,
light only birds can sing.
would i choose the way of the flower,
way of the bird
bones feather light
with no words to weigh them
only pulse joyous quick
singing the world into being.
would i come here
to this garden
just to sing you.

 

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morning gods

i light the morning fire
though today sun will come
warming the floors
drying the wool
hung in skeins
after dyeing.
there is time still
for love to breathe me
before light has turned to day
and the world begins its waking.
these are my gods this morning
warmth of flame
burning dead-fall wood.
chorister robin
low branched
in the elder tree,
singing.
light new risen
etching deep vein shadows
in spring green
leaf translucence.
breath –
all of it breathing.

 

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days

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these are our high and holy days
the ones where we shake
the night’s rain from blossoms
so they might yield their scent
to our breath,
the ones where we wake to the sound
of smartphones proclaiming the day,
(and the hour and the weather)
the ones we make toast for,
early morning iron pans
on gas burners – soft speak
and warm tea.
these are our high and holy days
slipping seamless into traffic
hands cool on steering wheels
as we drive east
face to the rising sun.
these are our high and holy days
early morning market days
driving rhythm school days
late nights on the computer days.
these are our high and holy days
sunbird in the coral tree days
wrangling the internet days
planting seeds and changing tyre days
watching for the moon days.
these are our high and holy days
air so thick with spring days
that our feet grow roots on the path
while flowers teach us to breathe.
these are our high and holy days.
all of them.

embodying our light

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if i am going to share your shadow
share your awakening
then let me taste you.
let me know your unraveling
in spring from the scent
it left on your skin.
let me ache with the cold
of ocean in your bones
and the warmth of granite
boulder pressing into the
arch of your back
palms to the sun.
if we are to share this shadow
this awakening
then give me the
word on your lips
that chased you
heart pounding from dream
or the sound
of your morning
when light touched
tips of the coral tree
and the sunbird
iridescent
began to sing,
let me taste what it is
that made you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anticipate

correction

i was wrong.
the world cannot live unspoken
anymore than the heart
can live
unsaid.
as dependable as days rush towards us
and nights breathe us clear and still,
so our hearts
open us to the world
word by tentative word
bright petals to the morning sun.

 

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reunion

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there is a finite pause
in this infinity of life
as we are born
so we must die
and we will.
i will lose you and
you will lose me
as we have done
so many times before.
until then
let us live alive
to love
joyous fractal arcs of light
knee deep in the smell of rain
knowing infinity by our finite measure
leaning into every moment,
remembering.
let not a fear of death
keep us from living.

and when my breath
becomes the world wind once more
let me be reborn a seeker
hungry for the sound of your light
in the world
until every leaf and breath
and mountain speaks you.

the day my mother’s sister came to stay

i heard them from the road
as i was walking soft in late autumn sun
i heard them talking together
voices rising, rolling and falling around each other
familiar with where the pauses
and breaths happen and where scar tissue
thick pink has grown armour on old wounds
some shared

they were in the garden
silver haired sentinels
warrior grandmother’s in lilac and beads.
quiet a moment
watching the sun slant low through trees
and fuchsias opening wax red calyxes
to reveal froth pink centres
delicate crystalline shimmer
in silver sliver light.
they have lived all the names of woman
daughter sister aunt wife
mother grandmother friend.
and more
miss mrs ms

inside i sit on blue brocade
in purple embroider-land
but under their skirts
combat boots are showing
they laugh like cowboys
and drink their tea.

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Shimmer