before asking
tomorrow’s blessing
I must bow my head
naming the blessings
already received

how heaven sits
all around and
patiently waits
discovery
this is chief
among the blessings
received

and how I can hear
your voice over and over
and still be aware of
loving you

how it is loving
not waiting that
causes love to be
born, borne
over and
over

stars
that do not look like
stars
fallen broken
rising falling
rolling bits of
dark surrounded
by the legends of
stars
we meet them
all along the
way

our struggle
to follow
only one
emboldens
delusion and
habit which
we must learn
to see from
the distance
of stars
that move as
one on the
way

it means nothing
going out high

tangled in light
and pulled by the dark
arms of a jasmine-
scented cocktail

brushing rust
from golden wings
in the end
all I want
is redemption

a word or
a mark
that takes me
makes me
over

winter wakeup call
cat stretching on the pillow
his nose in my ear

saint philomena
that winter
up at the farm
daydreams of saints
angels and archangels
lonely teenage girl
walking in
knee-deep snow

like a star
this advent amaryllis
leads me on

nest of lights woven
round and round and round for this
bird that is my heart

we think we
see the snowy field meet
the gray sky

late afternoon
trees grow their shadows long
reaching out toward night

a leopard frog
leaps between birch stumps
into green water

shadows
the generosity
of bare trees

new house
on the old cabin footing
morning coffee smells the same

calls me dear, he does
forgives my fits and tempers
and holds safe my heart

Perched on the naked spine
rising from a brown cattail flower
that is swaying in the chilly breeze,
a lingering redwing blackbird calls out.
The broken notes of its summer
song go unanswered.
Out across the marsh,
there is no other sound
but the whispering of rushes
moving against each other.

it's hard to dance
when the head is bowed too low
look up at the moon

hunting pheasants
we walked the train tracks
out of town

the winter sun pale and low
where they disappear

For years, no trains––
now late at night they rumble
past these dreams.

some days
it’s not enough
to know that
kind words were
once spoken

then we need
to hold in our
hands and hearts
a more substantial
token

how may I help you
these words fall out of my eyes
while my voice stays mute

not silent my reaching hands
not still this heart in anguish

autumn behind us
a redwing blackbird calls
from the cattails

love growing wild
like clover like laurel
a soul of branches

come here, see
they've all fallen
down scarlet
leaves now
at feet of
carbon black

light caught high in a
silver filament of web
a window to joy

now it is morning
scratching at the door, howling
with left-over dreams

behind the silence
sat a song of mountain times
loving and longing

red maple leaves
falling down the dark boughs
of the old spruce

wind through the bare branches
a leaf rattles
across the parking lot

we dance and we sing
out of those too-tight places
where we cannot live

if
all you knew
was piano and trumpet
imagine
what drums
might sound like
to you
imagine
what they all
might sound like
together

Communion, 1968

I knelt against the pew,
leaning in again to see
Mary, the black hair
falling straight down
the back of her dress,

the faint freckles
scattered under eyes
that, after Mass,
made blue flowers
appear on the chicory
pushing out at the curbs,
dancing around the
telephone poles,
as cars rushed past me
standing in front
of the church.

As still as a statue, she
knelt beside her beautiful
mother, the Body
of Christ dissolving
in our mouths.

mornings are lovely
here there is a sound then a
flight of some fancy

We exist
eyes in heads
bouncing and rolling
like so many beach balls
ping-ponging
in the currents of sight
blowing
through the mind-tunnels
of the night.
   Riding trains
of thought,
we try to possess
the unpossessible.
   In and out of darkness
sparks of hope glimmer
in the secret chamber
that we think
cannot be found
by so-called strangers
who, likewise hoping,
hide diamonds
in transparent mines.

"We" by Bill Buchman in "Suite For Modern Man"

Silver fish flopping
in a dark net too big
to pass through

we will celebrate
in a moment all the steps
of his ninety years

held firmly wholly
roots that protect and nourish
so tossed yet not torn

we return time after time
holy holy wholly one

offertory prayer
the back of the pew, bitter
to the child's tongue

Kids blowing smoke
in the honeysuckle bushes--
behind the school

against the window
rain hammers wind shouts wake up
day rolls in

those stories
Mother never told
find me in dreams

late september
the beds all gone
to seed

still fish
beneath lily pads
tossed in the rain

out of sorts
in choking humidity
she dreams of snow

little can be seen
one tall verbena swaying
a wake in the fog

crow
on either end
of the broken fence rail

rose-breasted grosbeak
a moment before
only sparrows

high humidity
curls every thing with the
waning breath of summer

it will rain tonight
the mums just planted will spread
roots in their new home