New Wind

The wind came out of Navajo country
across the plains
through the tops of the pines
sliding beneath the fur of
the four-footeds close to the ground

At first I thought it might be
the raw wind, the heartless wind
that lashes the elms and oaks
on its way from the gray-spotted waves
far to the east

But no, it was the kindly, deep, auburn wind
the wind with the talismans of deeds
the wind of the wise counsel
new responsibilities
the wind that confirms our ancestry

We belong to this land now
whether European, Asian or African orphans
the wind and mountains have molded us
the edges of the ocean have reminded us
of our origins

Boned by midwives
winnowed by witches
encased in hummingbird nest
struggling for purchase
on the tallest branch

Swooping down to the mole's lair
underneath the gloaming
eyes squinted at fairies
waiting for that wind - that prince of wind
to carry us off to our real home

In the arms of the new wind
not the wind of summer
mysterious blackness and crickets
dancing in the elven rings

Not the wind of winter
stern father to our labors
swallowing sound in a long whistle
weeping in ice dreams

We are lodged in the eternal heart
of mother wind like a walnut
that her owl will bear away
with secrets safe
in the moon's shadow.

The Perseverance

Plants are hardwired
to reach upward
they know
their destiny

They undergo all kinds
of hardships
to bathe in the
golden light

I see this green
amidst the snow
touch its velvet petal
speak in wonder

In its sleeping
determination
it only hears me in
its dreaming passage

I ask the nun
what is the hardest part
about retreat
what should I prepare for

She says "the perseverance"
there is nowhere else to go
just sitting
then the tormas to make

Always some work
some activity
prayer and study
very little free time

I understand that
kind of practice
but maybe not as well
as the plants.

Eclipsed

Bouncing molecules
upon the planet
configuration

Ripples of uncertainty
land in random order
internal patterns
conjugating
conversations

Limited only by
dimensions of
light follicles

An old wound
has erupted
I stem the flow
I know the steps to take
but it still hurts

Haiti is a
torn hem
of the mother's
sleeve

I am less
than a bacteria

There is a
certain measure
of content
in not being
alone.