Gray, the path ahead.
Like Luke on the swamp planet,
his speed, weapons, identity
sinking in mud
and no Yoda, not anywhere.
Even an R2 would do.
Why do other's lives stand out so clear,
a look in their eyes and I see I AM,
but when I listen for that still small voice,
all I hear is a buzzing,
a gentle letting
a playful allowing
when I WANT the bolt of lightening.
Maybe it already fell,
but I crafted it into a new poem
so it doesn't burn so much.
There is too much of EVERYTHING here,
the lab at my feet, aging into her chocolate coat,
the black bamboo by the huge gray boulder in the back yard,
the laughter of my teenager, nervous, school starts tomorrow,
and I am shy, like him, of Beginnings.
I am like a little blue sky and water thread woven
into a tapestry of greens and browns, homey, earthy.
So much energy to pick me out
and reweave me with bird feathers and wolf hair and the
kayak's smooth cutting edge.
Am I not a monk here already?
Do I not gather fossils as if
they were kin?
Centering prayer group today
and I am afraid I will cry and cry
and they will ask for an Answer
that I haven't really heard yet.
So I will hold them and
in the holding,
let myself be held.
I don't trust such things, though.
They want a Teacher,
not a Soul.
I will tell you sometime about the broken bowl
handed across a dreamtime fire,
twenty years ago now, and last night,
broken like two open hands--
fingers and palms are too much like eyes,
but clenching my fists,