Dark gray branches intertwine,
Set against the lowering clouds.
They mirror the tangle of roots
Hidden in the wet ground.
As below so above.
As I trace one serpentine limb,
It begins to glow then explodes
Into a metallic hue of industrial neon purple.
It blazes brighter than the sky.
I look away, only to see
Suspended above the trees
A single leaf.
It too starts to shine,
But with a deep indigo blue,
Vibrating to a hidden pulse.
Oh, the secret beauty we seldom see.
But, look! Look!
I don’t care about your potentate in the heavens.
Tell me instead about these, the lesser deities:
Who watch over the weary riders on public transit.
Who guard the rough walkers of the hidden hours.
Who consider the disregarded workers in menial jobs.
Divinities not housed in marbled churches
To be addressed by ministers in flowing garb.
Their presence is found in more common spaces.
The hard plastic seats of the bus.
The crumbling tarmac on the roadside.
The bloodied floor of the meat-packing plant.
No soaring hymns with organ
That are sung by an amplified choir.
Only brief prayers of plea and praise.
Oh lord, let me get home.
My god, they almost hit me.
Thank goodness, this day is done.
Their offerings come not in gilt plates
Passed amongst the monied hands.
A glance with a fellow passenger.
A smile thrown into a car window.
A greeting on the way out the door.
Sing love, peace, and goodness
And bless the small gods.
It was not petrichor, this scent of rain.
The path as I walked had previously
Been dampened by nocturnal showers.
The trees glinted with moisture,
And the sodden ground muffled my footsteps.
No, this was the balm of continued precip
That joined the falling leaves, the cooling winds,
And the shortening light
As messengers all of season’s change.
Glory in the mountains.
What are tears?
We all carry the ocean within us,
Salt and minerals and water.
Perhaps crying,
Be it joyous or grieving,
Signals the desire to return
To this primordial state.
A wish, unspoken, even unconscious,
To be as we began.
May you know you are home
And be at ease.
Glowing skeletons in neon hue
Jitter and jangle across the sky.
They fill the air with discordant shrieks
Underlaid with a cello drone.
The universe dances with them in mad lurch,
And autumn leaves rain to the ground.
They cover the mountains in fantastic garb,
Swirling in the chill breeze.
All this a presentiment: Winter fast approaches.
I sit with my mala wrapped around my wrist.
In another room, I drink my tea. There I drop my tea cup.
As I count the beads, this accident causes my heart to shatter.
The tea cup remains whole, and I inhale the fragrance and sip.
The mala falls through the air. I catch it and resume my cadence.
Each breath repairs my heart. I taste the flavor of the tea and smile.
Let us gather chrysanthemums
For mourning in these perilous times.
Weave them into crowns of sorrow
For grief at lives taken in brutal war.
Scatter their petals on the wind
For sympathy with those who remain.
These are but the slightest gestures,
Tiny funereal floral tributes.
Do more where we can.
We look around at a landscape
Forever altered by the presence of nuclear weapons.
We stand and wonder,
Where is our home? And who will lead us there?
We hear the inexorable ticking of the clock
As it moves closer to midnight.
Do not turn away and hide.
That seems the easy path, but it is futile.
We must open our eyes, our ears, our hearts, and our minds
To join together to repair this broken world.
The varied clothing of our differences-
Be they religion, skin color, nationality or any other-
Does not change our relation underneath.
Everyone is part of the family of humanity.
Let us choose life, so that all might live.
