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Move Over

This life is big, room for everything
generations long, incarnations deep.
We'll be the echo bouncing
between first moment and what's possible.

 Imagine how remarkable this encounter,
my newest granddaughter, Maia
with her crystal dreams of me 
in the holy mire of 12th century Wales.

 I am amused, for even in such a boundless home
our stuff tends to eddy as clutter
close around us, the grand piano,
the chiffonier, the waterbed and the bookcases.

 If I grouse about my stranding on some imagined island, 
audaciously feeling hemmed in, it's on me.
The epic frontier waits here, just beyond 
the edge of convention or the morning mirror.

 And the March winds are right on time,
ready to rise in our bellies, open our hearts, 
sweep out the cobwebs, the dead limbs.
Blackberry winter, sprawling as New Jersey, wants in.





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