River of Stones

                            I once knew a poet.  She was

                            a black velvet bag

                            full of diamonds.

                            Glimmering, she told me,

                            “Hold firm the river in your arms.

                            Let the water flow like words

                            churning through your fingers.

                            Pace yourself by breathing. Feel

                            fresh water’s wheel press against your

                            chest, the pulsing taps on your body

                            for a change. Stand firm to breathe.

                            Do not pretend to celebrate.

                            Listen gently to the eddies

                            and their every little hug.

                            Your lungs will grasp the cold.

                            Your feet will intercede.

                            Rocks underwater will

                            laugh at your attempts

                            to reach the river's knobby banks

                            for stillness. You will be

                            turned aside, your feet will

                            not be sure of who you are.

                            You will not know

                            your own rhythms.

                            Stand firm to the river

                            and she will bend to you.

                            She will arch her back against

                            your tender knowing and

                            whisper you downstream toward

                            a scented grove of autumn trees;

                            the passing flash of brook trout;

                            the hurriedness of seasons;

                            cold marrow of the water;

                            the aptitude of trees; the

                            secrets of cold stones …”

                        Drill

                        I have two families,

                        one of children,
                        one of cats.

                        We eat basil bread

                        together.

                        Some I see

                        quite often, others

                        scatter for days across

                        their sea of work and trees,

                        of papers, of books,

                        of highways, missing.

                        Cats have their

                        Buddhism and

                        practice it daily--

                        on my carpet

                        with their toys and 

                        hidden pee.

                        They sleep
                        immodestly

                        and scratch

                        at the most

                        apparent times.

                        But children

                        don’t return

                        as often as they

                        could in favor of

                        their own becoming.

                        This is ordinary.

                        This is real.

                        I don’t remember their

                        faith or favored kinds

                        of shoes, their preferred

                        flowers or their songs,

                        only the thoughts they 

                        leave behind.

                        I am still here,

                        a kestrel on the wind,

                        a father with wine,

                        a father humming old

                        window songs, a lone father

                        waiting with cats, with

                        melting lit candles 

                        and basil bread warming

                        in these little heats of time.

                           New Canticle 

                                “In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.”
                                                  – Denise Levertov

                           Lift red cranberries

                           with your fingertips
                           to your lips and
                           eat them all

                           slowly,

                           like the Eucharist.

                           Peel a new

                           orange now. The juice
                           runs freely 

                           down your fingers

                           into your palms 
                           as you tear apart
                           the cold wet flesh.

                           Those sweet

                           cold sections
                           come to bloom
                           in your hands. You
                         
                           put them in your mouth now.
                           Place them back
                           against your teeth.
                           Follow that

                           feeling with your

                           tongue, the swelling taste
                           from the fruit

                           and wonder.
                          
                           Bend each section
                           against your mouth
                           for the flooding.

                           Here is the stickiness

                           you desire:
                           this holiness,

                           the scent of your hands,

                           the taste of memory
               
                           are new places
                           God has been,

                           and clean water

                           and the curtains
                           and the tears ...