In Hiding

and even the sun,
in all her brilliance,
slips into the stillness
of her dark womb
every day
at twilight,
hiding herself,
away from eyes
that cannot hold
her ravishing beauty
for long -
eyes that want to
devour her glory,
tossing and turning
through long, dark nights,
all for a glimpse of her;
and then she arrives quietly,
without fanfare,
while the world still dreams,
burning shadows
along her way,
and fanning the flames
of those hearts
that fear not to walk
in their own light
and shadow.

You Know That Feeling?

you know that feeling
when that goodbye
is stuck in the lump
of your throat,
when your eyes film
with the salt
of your flooded heart,
wondering whether
to stay open or shut?
you know that feeling
when you draw the curtains
just before you go to bed,
and catch the moon
as she takes her rightful place
on that cosmic stage,
and wonder why
you cannot be out there with her,
but have to take a peek from the wings?
you know that feeling
of getting to the end
of a book you lost yourself in,
not knowing where you were even,
or that feeling when you're
standing along the water's edge
where waves part and caress
your shifting toes,
only to receive you in?
you know that feeling
when you are suspended
between an inexplicable emptiness
and a bewitching fullness,
knowing you've played your part
and that the time has finally come
when you ought to move to the wings?
Yes,
for that's how stars are born,
that's how flowers are made,
that's how the earth turns,
and that's how the seas roar,
in the great family of all things.
 

Glory

glory be to the man
who sits under the shade
of an ancient tree,
who drinks in the freshness
of a sun-kissed breeze,
and the fullness
of sprightly flowers on leaves,
and who for a moment
looks to the primordial ground,
to hold a fistful of dark earth
in his heart,
with a silence profound.

Rear Window

there are many windows
in the house;
but which one
do you look to open
on days when you want
to fill your soul
with a breath of fresh air?

will you open
the one in front
with its pretty facade
and charming tableau
of a life half-lived,
looking out into
a manicured garden
with dainty flowers,
dancing butterflies,
and a well-worn path
leading up to a door
that always opens
with a gentle push
or the sound of a bell?

or will you open
the one in the rear
with its termite-eaten frame
adorned with
sticky dark cobwebs
and well-settled dust,
undisturbed by
the constant chatter
and clutter
of frivolity,
looking out
into the untamed woods,
where there is space
for everything
both light and dark,
small and big,
ugly and beautiful;
where butterflies and moths
wander free,
where grass and clovers,
creepers and wildflowers,
burst open their hearts
with unbridled joy,
where you walk the path
forged by your eyes
up to the altar
where fear meets love
in a bitter-sweet union?

which window
will you open
today?

Wild

there is a magical beauty
in all things that are wild -
organic, tangled fronds,
with nothing left to hide;
there is an unseen pattern
in the untidy growth,
sunlight spangled labyrinths,
dewdrops of love,
for all to hold;
there is an unspoken rhythm,
as the wind carries truths of old,
the smell of wild forests
and warm, moist earth,
to nurture and behold.

In the Eyes of the Beholder

I stand
on the edge,
with the wind
on my face -
blue waters, 
painted storks,
green patches,
and pelicans' squawks;
a pretty picture
comes alive
in the eyes
of the beholder,
while they carry on,
and sing their song,
unfazed, untouched,
basking in the glory
of the glowing sun.