Learning to Use a Scythe

-------Learning to Use a Scythe-------

We need not swing heavy,
dear friend.

We have done the peening and now our tool is sharp.

It took the toil, though,

those days at hacking weeds,

to learn the practicality of care.

It's taken the callusing

to soften will enough to see

ourselves manifest in our vocation.

No longer a product of this world but creators along with it,
we share love songs
through the tender choir of our hands.

And in a field
of grasses and wild flowers,

the work
     we live
          comes home.

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Beginning Seed

-------Beginning Seed-------

Roots, a river

the beginning seed.

Moss-covered stones

beneath the hemlock trees.

A mother's ashes
and a child's step,

"float
     away
          roses,

we will not forget you".

'Cause love builds bridges

and it takes them down,

stone by stone

back to the ground;

Where children climb

and petals wilt

and what once was

is forever still.

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Haiku to Rest

-------Haiku to Rest-------

I need to sleep, Child,

to lay my head near flowers,

and let myself go.

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Peace of Mind

-------Peace of Mind-------

Creation waits

for the quiet to shine in 

like sunrise

through the window

and fill your entire room

with light.

Please,

don't close the blinds 

just yet;

it is much easier to see 

in here

when they're open.

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A Kind Reminder

-------A Kind Reminder-------

Forgive loneliness

as a kind reminder to keep moving

and walk with me, Sister,

to the garden

where there is always something 

beautiful in flower.

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The Tinder of Dreams

-------The Tinder of Dreams-------

Bonfire Spring in magic land

and starlight the tinder of dreams.

We sat in a circle, 

all kin to that moment,

and raised up joy, 

like cups and glasses, to the middle

and the flames shared us whole,

edge-less and radiant.

It touched our faces.

It touched every leaf on the hill.

And when the wood ran low

we passed, by hand, a bottle of desert fire

and sang old songs to keep our inside warm.

A toast to youth

   and embers

      and nighttime.

An ode to the great, wild emptiness

we've all become again.

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More Than Just Water

-------More Than Just Water-------

More than just water fell last night,

and it touched the soul of the garden in a way

I could never with buckets and a well;

Highers rhythm,

pit-patter upon broad-leafed drums,

left a drop of heaven on the tips.

I held her closer and said nothing,

only listened, while the smell of white, wild roses

welcomed us back home.

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