I will lift my eyes to the hills
before the light appears–
the light which rises in the east,
and radiates from Jerusalem.
I will lift my eyes,
my heart, my hopes
from the depths of my sorrow,
from pain that clouds my senses,
from feelings of isolation.
To the hills I will reach out for solace–
to upward currents of Spirit,
to the greenness of Life
I will lift my eyes to the hills
to the One
who never fails to appear.
In the deepest darkness of the season,
and of our lives,
we tucked ourselves beneath blankets of yearning.
He yearned for me.
I yearned for You.
And somewhere in the stillness,
in shared words of the Sages,
in yearning itself,
we found one another again.
Beware of mangos
and all such beautiful, sweet things
your hands may mold themselves around
as if abandoning their humanness.
Thought is the shape that shapes
each object to itself. Informs
the formless what to be– syllables
that smoke,
and fog,
and seem to disappear–
pragmatic as poetry.
Translating everything
to metaphor.
Mangos and such,
into the face of a child held
in your hands.
three friends
three heart attacks
two deaths
and my quiet
little life
filled with love
simplicity
walks among duck ponds
and Queen Anne’s Lace
is suddenly trivial
and extremely precious
Okay, I forgot.
I’m sixty years old,
and I forgot Helen Keller was deaf.
You laughed.
I laughed.
And for a moment, I was confused.
But really,
what’s the difference?
It doesn’t change anything,
doesn’t insult anyone,
or disrupt world economics.
It’s actually a compliment.
I didn’t forget Keller’s brilliance,
the way she advocated for blind folks around the world,
her eloquent use of words.
I didn’t forget Keller knew German,
French and Greek, appreciated
the ocean, Socialism, and Beethoven.
Deafness, and blindness
for that matter, were sudden cliffs
Keller navigated throughout her life,
the shocking scenery,
and heartstopping challenges
most people find too distracting
to go on living.
That’s the difference—
Helen Kelller lived.
My turn comes,
gimmey talk–painful
goodbyes, dreams found
and lost, love,
and hate, death,
struggle, laughter, tears.
Talk, real talk.
My turn comes,
gimmey touch–hand
to hand to cheek
lips, hair, arms
embracing,
kissing, feeling, being.
Touch, real touch.
My turn comes
gimmey life–memory
told and retold,
tears without end,
life, real life.
Like shadows in the firelight,
Like smoke upon the air,
Like spectres we are dancing
–is no one there?
Ephemeral and timeless
Colors flicker, bright
As dreams of sleepless dreamers
Who pass the weary night
Yearning for another’s touch
–to know themselves alive,
A word to build a world upon,
Yet something to believe.
8
O sing
my beloved, shatter
sanctuary stillness with song.
Open
to the sky
your sacred box of hope
and yearning,
your breath
returning
life to life,
your rhythmic swaying
like trees at Ankenny, praying.
7
Queen Anne wears lace
and waves at me
as I embrace
wild Ankenny.
She waves at me,
a royal friend
at Ankenny.
I humbly bend,
and would embrace
her, but I see
upon white lace,
her ladies three.
At Ankenny,
eight ducklings wait–
she waves at me,
I hesitate,
Queen Anne, where’s lace?”
I whisper low.
“In your embrace
of Nature’s show.”
She waves past me,
sweeps green and blue,
“All Ankenny
is lace for you.”
“In Life’s embrace
you feel God’s breath,
like lace-
threads, weaving life and death.”
“Wild Ankenny
breathes Spirit’s call,
weaves you with me,
and us with All.”
Queen Anne wears lace
and waves at me
as I embrace
wild Ankenny.
6
But ducklings hatch
with eyes open,
feathers at the ready.
One day in the nest,
and away they go
–rapidly
skimming wetland waters, plucking
tiny morsels from wetland plants.
Midges and damselflies
swarm prairie skies,
beetles, fairy shrimp, water fleas,
and snails suffice.
