Future Breathing
Once upon a time,
we thought our bodies
had outlines.
We thought that one heart
was distinct from the next.
We thought that touch was
the only connection.
There is nothing between us now.
The distant past of disconnection
no longer contains the human spirit.
Thoughts,
words,
actions –
float just above the earth walkers.
Now we are truly one.
Blue-white chords –
strands that link generations –
there is an echo of shared consciousness
in every wave hello
and every kiss goodbye.
The cardinal knows your song.
The turtle feels your soul’s vibration
with his slow, steady feet.
The hawk knows you are
becoming more
each
day.
One step bleeds into
a string of days.
One year passes the baton
to many future years.
It is all happening right now.
Heaven is all around us –
where we stand –
where we breathe.
—
To Be the White Orchid
Your newly polished self –
it shines in light
and in dark.
It rises above.
Your newly polished self
knows no boundaries,
because you have come
full circle
to the lightness of Being
that is you.
You surge
like the streamlined, silver power lines
of the city –
all jet stream
and mercury.
You wander into the self
with eyes wide to truth –
knowing that
this sometimes isn’t pretty –
this sometimes tastes stale.
Your newly polished self
wants to tango –
wants to leave town –
wants to be the white orchid –
exquisite
and
rare.
You are true blue –
newly polished.
—
If I Were That Blade of Grass
Honey touched dew would
glide down my shoulder,
quenching the season’s
dry, parched earth.
If I were that blade of grass,
young squirrels would
launch themselves onto branches,
using my strong, frond-like length
as a trampoline.
If I were that blade of grass,
I would be in danger of suffering nibbles
from deer and small rabbits,
but I would let them.
My capacity for growth
is endless.
If I were that blade of grass,
I would sing in the wind,
like the sound a wine glass makes
when touched on the rim –
liquid circles of high notes
and low tones.
If I were that blade of grass,
I would welcome both the new green
and the fading brown –
accept my shortcomings
and keep growing.
—
Echoes of You
The very beginning of you
is the furtive sun
not yet knowing how to hold your hand.
It is the stretching of muscles
when your tender feet meet the floor.
The very beginning of you
is storm cloud
and Big Bang.
It is the dancing dust whirl –
a tornado of life and light.
There is no end of you.
Your walk carries on –
your voice echoes
in the throat of a son
or granddaughter –
your cocoa butter skin,
the rich timbre of your voice,
the delicate way your fingers
embrace a pen.
Each new step
and each end of the road
leads to more of you –
the captured flutterings
of forget-me-not
and –
I am still here.
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