November turns the fields to cold mud

corvids usually pick through the wet grass

their eyes sharp enough to cut

their cries so raucous as to wake the dead

today no unkindnesses nor murders are to be found in the yard

and the gray of clouds has seeped into our dreams

sending us to do desperate things for color

paint a picture of our wildest hopes

dance down the street to strut and wail and beat

amidst the chaos we needs gather more than ever

find our people, set a table, join hands together

give thanks to farmers, now let us eat

if the body remembers, then mine holds close

stories of how to die and return

to return and die again and again

such were my first three months and beyond

thus it has remained

currently I have fever cough pain

three months now off and on again and again

no comforting touch nor sheltering box

only finally the knowledge that I am not unique

that everyone is always in a transitional state

I wrap this understanding around me

a calming weight to ease my intemperate mind

and rest

first layer, feeling

physical here-and-nowness

constriction of breath

in and out movement

each a different nuance of pain

second layer, noting

it is like this and this and this

labels drop away

dissolving into flow

inhalation and exhalation

third layer, resting

awareness sees itself

elsewhere a spider takes a step

and the world trembles

petals so fragile they bleed from a gaze

cover the ground as bruised pavement

their colors darkening with every footstep

sepia shading recalling other wounds

those we hurry past and try not to see

we all have blows we cannot escape

cuts and marks and tender scars

some heal and in their repair transform

a sharpened jag becomes an expansive heart

so that even the tear-strewn weary earth

awash with wreckage from violent storms

is suddenly overrun with flowers

I thought myself patient and wise, building this sturdy wall

brick by hardened brick around my fearful precious self

but that surround is made of glass and guards an empty space

able to be shattered by any kind word

every day I am cut by some sharp edge, some jagged self-delusion

that I still grasp to use as mirror to see my face

how long before I’ve bled enough to drop these shards

let go such desperate need and rest

no sight, no seeing, no being seen

what I see hear feel

would you understand

not here there anywhere

but everywhere also nowhere

these the same

I do not exist nor do you or you or you

nor does anything but there is

joy light laughter brilliance love

choose the term that draws you in

expands your heart explodes your self

and here you are

vajra posed in the gem in the lotus

dancing on the branches of the jewel tree

the journey to our farm, the winding path

my father with me at his heels

the green fruit itself, carefully cut into quarters

then sprinkled with a dash of salt

my father explaining that salt cuts sourness

the first bite, I tasted the truth of this

the second brought to mind the wash of the Gulf

the third a hint of the acrid clay that lines the bayous

the fourth the slow bitterness of tears

I swallowed such realization and with a grin

held out my hand for more

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