Rejoice my love and in your beauty see us both reflected(St John of the Cross)

God-Wolf

Haunt me, hunt me, have me God-gray wolf.
Snarl and sink into my foundering flesh.
Inhabit the forest of my dreams
and Prowl and stalk until you rest behind
the knowledge tree -- one eye on me, one set on deeper things.
Pursue until sated foreteeth find their moist home within your muzzle,
until reverie and lapping savor the last of me
and I have been devoured into the fur-clad heaven of your stomach.

March Moment

Half of the yard behind the house
is dusted with the cool sugar of mid-March;
the early talc prepares unpowdered earth
for vital spring and panting summer sweats.

From author Jim Harrison -- Marching

Marching

At dawn I heard among bird calls the billions of marching feet in the churn and squeak of gravel, even tiny feet still wet from the mother's amniotic fluid, and very old halting feet, the feet of the very light and very heavy, all marching but not together, criss-crossing at every angle with sincere attempts not to touch, not to bump into each other, walking in the doors of houses and out the back door forty years later, finally knowing that time collapses on a single plateau where they were all their lives, knowing that time stops when the heart stops as they walk off the earth into the night air.

Lost holy now

Late holy morning in February -- first, bright sunlight, a rare welcome and I do not strain to stay within the womb of sleep this time.

One click releases me from the white noise of a fan that blew in the cool room throughout the night -- it retreats and I am given to the sparkling silence, the holy now.

My dog is breathing beside the bed, she snores, knowing the rest that comes with perfect trust -- I practice it myself. I let my ears guide my painting mind to the cabinet I hear closing, the gentle drag of a kitchen drawer, the soft-shoe of a coffee mug across the countertop. The furnace breathes beneath the floor, the fridge opens and closes and with great intention I can hear the deep brown brew rising to its fullness -- I can hear the steam, the pot returned to its electric holster, the sound of a stirring spoon.

It is the stillness of Eden on the first day. It is what they heard before the whisper for more, before any of the conquering began, before the sly Self first performed.

Throughout the night God has placed a universe within. The holy now of first light is where I behold that glorious replacement and it is where I wait for trust to fade, for fear to return with waking. It is where I ponder whether or not I could actually live there, stay there; whether it could make here into a heaven, with sunbeams showering away the imperfection, with coffee warming up from slumber the gladness that longs to live outside. Perhaps I could hold it in the hands of my heart as I am held, perhaps I could live from the inside out.

But then, as a twitch, the new creation shrinks. The phone rings, I hear it from the bedroom and I do not anticipate what good old friend it must be, what communion we might have for a few moments over so many miles. The now being so holy, the quiet so soothing, I am sure it is a demon on the other end with just one quick question, not meaning to bother but ready to destroy what was boundless and so holy. Surely they are ready to set fire to the golden sprawl that was my soul for one late morning in February.

A Lighter Touch

Lord let me bring a lighter touch to the canvas of my interactions
that all may know who is the Artist, and who the brush.