What the Muses Leave Behind

There is story curled up in the chest. Like a wooden cask, honey filled. Oh! labyrinth into the heart of things, Collapse us into love. Even belly deep in babushka nights, this long road unfurls us. Face in the raindrop, river to the sea. Collapse us into love. Still, humanity coalesces, borders open, a world walks in. Our realizations sit fresh and fragile, Collapse us into love. Sometimes sorrow brings a truer moon, and we dissolve like mist in wind. Surrender rides a waterfall. Collapse us into love. Today, hallelujah brushed a winter sky, a pilgrim peace of pewter day. Into maelstrom of wren song, Fibonacci curls, Collapse us into love.

“The darkness around us is deep.” - William Stafford maybe the Earth is flat, adrift an ocher sea raft of pine poles tethered to it pimply moon, days rise in vast swells and you bob among the hours and dream a billion stars ragged ride for one, but adventure for two one to scud the gales, hold the line, one to tell stories, watch for storms, two could seed a hundred victories, escape at least one close call and heartfelt, comfort comes home here and now, chocolate sweet in spoonfuls while the Earth grows round beneath you

She's given up on men - it's a green ash across the river she wants to wed. Each October as its mantle blushes  crimson with tassels draping epaulets on umpteen shoulders, her knees turn to putty, and a hummingbird heart must carry them home. Love is like that, abundantly handling every handicap; and while left brain raves at the madness, this trans-kingdom infatuation, Montague and Capulet, implores her to reconsider such indiscretion, her dreams  simply leapfrog logic for Shangri-La: tree and woman leaning into endless entwine, their breath a feast of sumptuous light.

(formerly Precious ) Mickey’s Bradford pear is blooming concrete deep in Central Harlem. In a place where graffiti is weedy. Where precious is knowing biota from asphalt, knowing the chestnuts ripe for roasting or redbud too phobic to flower. Trees are sentinels with seasonal wardrobe. Today Mickey’s sentry stands brave and blooming. A feast for the eyes of its beholder. There may be no dandelions, so savory in salads. See where brave got them. There, a dauntless ginkgo kinks sidewalks; crabgrass, its fringe partner. What every plant knows, stealth never sleeps, and up the Hudson, dogwood winter has wolfed a billion blossoms - we’ll feel that loss in June. Today, the subterranean chitters a pulse from Central Harlem. Just off Madison Ave, white confetti lavishes the April breeze. Bloom you Bradford Pear, bloom!

(previously Micheal's Dervish) Let’s whirl a yellow sky, gowned in gossamer, laced up in thunder. Let's hold the rumble,   just to  tumble  - Habiba’s milky heart. Let’s burn hot, be spent like blackened fields. Laced up in thunder, let's hold the heat, seed heads popping with epiphany. Let’s burn hot, be spent like Saturday night. We’ll raise a murder of crows, a heckle of dragons. Seed heads swelling with wizened codes. The Vesper bells, pearls of Cantos. We’ll feed a murder of crows, a fold of tigers. We’ll bleed clouds, weave them into magic carpet. The Vesper bells, opals of cantata. Let’s be the summons for gentle rain. We’ll bleed clouds, weave them into love charms. Spin ecstasy to spread over shadow. Let’s be the summons for gentle days, be light dancing, dappled beneath green canopies. Spin ecstasy to spread over sadness. A yellow sky swings us widdershins.

Be at home in the heart, ballast for brittle hides, make ledges of light your springboard to providence. Be at home with the hunger, let it shake you, be at home for the mercy, scuttle it's fine edge. When you fly, follow warmth, avoid chickens, sip a dappled breeze, and never lament. Be at home in the peace, marry shadow  with dream,  join its long name: Grasshopper  Mother's Milk  Rosemary  Alabaster Waterfall  Lemon Balm  Red Tide Boney Night  Chanterelle  Mourning Dove  Estuary  Kudzu  Moonrise  Fish Bones  Dandelion  Rain

“Stay close, my heart, to the one who knows your ways…” - Rumi I’d break the mold Cast a maple spell on summer, tether tonight’s dream I’d stand inside the dream Tadasana,  mountain to stones in the river, silent under paddle strokes. I’d be diamonds in the smoke, shining out our anthem. I heard it yesterday. Stagecoach Road wore fire pinks along its limestone shoulders I’d be the feathery sedum beside it, delicate Tennessee triskelion ready with all three arms to wrap you up in waterfalls, in high humidity with leviathan heart, whispering a sturdy pledge, like the one of armadillos to fire ants - I will follow you to the end of time.

I sit with Katmandu all shook up - 7.9 with paisley troposphere caressing blue planet. I sit with red scarves on quiet women, with broken bodies confused about roads to healing. I sit with secret holders, how each one wonders, am I safe, am I stuck? I sit with ample water to take long hot showers in a safe place, my own safe place. I know of children who carry water, uphill for evening meals, dodging bullets, ducking shrapnel. I sit with questions that poke the soles of my feet, when I walk too fast they pop. I sit with sorrow, and like woodpecker, sometimes I just bang away at things. I sit with struggle and sing a weedy song,  I want my voice to be rain on tin. I sit like puddle dreaming ocean, like ocean dreaming sky.

Maybe this is the year that packs so much punch we turn elemental, simple start of water, walking across sky, walking with snow, soft groans underfoot - unfolding in white orchids, unfolding with aroma of lentil stew, sometimes stiff like a cold river making  its meander around alabastered maples, sometimes turning glorious into a verb, sometimes turning us into meadow of mud and moss – sometimes into moments subtle as February.  You stand agog with the hunger moon, still fluffed up in pink crystal. I want to skirt night's edge,  listening for the hymn that binds us. listening for the sound of green wood sheep,  bleating to the wide smile of a gray day. Sometimes the day rings deeper than our laments about Monday's forecast and daylight savings time. Sometimes we want to hold the ocean, yes, maybe this is the year.  

This life is big, room for everything generations long, incarnations deep. the echo bouncing between first moment and what's possible. Here’s a puzzle: with so much frontier how does the stuff still hem us in? The grand piano, chiffonier and waterbed, the stacks of magazines. Feeling stranded on a frigate of  clutter in a big wide sea? Oh my friend- it's on us! This life prefers light travel. The snow blows today in extravagant bustle because it grew wings. And behind a morning mirror there are secret sketches, hound and wolf, rib on rib, croon the moon. It's the song of ten thousand  walking out of Africa,  making  invention  the crib mate  of children,  building a world like   Fibber McGee’s closet.  "We gotta clean it out one of these days." This life rings with the dreams of grey whales, of March and Blackberry winter,  waking  and ready to sprawl like New Jersey.   Best move over, McGee and let it in.