this place called home

home lives inside the heart

and my heart dwells here

on the shores of water borrowed from the other side of the mountain

on an earth that’s hard and forgotten.

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my heart mingles with wild plants that are maligned by most

(i find them miracles)

tenacious plants that chose this place and persist

they have not forgotten the earth

let’s not forget to thank them, those maligned plants,

for they have a wisdom of their own.

 

i chose this place, too

and, like them, i’ll persist

i have not forgotten the earth

i’ll love all her weeds and thank them

and i’ll seek their wisdom,

for mine has been forgotten.

kochia

and just like them, one day i’ll move on

and i’ll have awakened an ancient wisdom that belongs to all beings

and i’ll leave behind love

a love that persists

my heart dwells here

this is home

 

 

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olive ridge

 yellow blue moon in the eastern sky

three boys: one tall one six one small

flash lights darkness

 

night games

 

a few short years

darkness will be home

to a teenage boy

 

my son

 

(glorious

each individual

and the whole of them)

 

this moment is truth:

rejoice in them

that is all there is

 

to do

ping

As I write, jars of peach syrup “ping” as they cool. Fifteen pounds of plums picked from the neighbor’s neglected tree sit on the counter awaiting the same pureed fate.  All three boys are in bed after a full day: some school, some sword fighting, a visit with friends, and lots of reading and being read to.  Their bodies wrestle under the sheets after another well-lived and perfectly ordinary day.  At home.  

H O M E.  

It’s a little bit location.  It’s a lot of other things: contentment, service, commitment, gratitude, work, imperfection, love.  My feet are sinking into this dirt.  This grass is plenty green.

she sits on her nest

she sits on her nest as if that is all that there is to do.

can i just sit on my nest like that?

as if that is all that there is to do.

i’d like to.

is there anything but the nest?

it seems we all think so.

but how big is the nest?

perhaps it is as small as basket of twigs and as big as the universe.

i think the robin knows.

 

 

to…

to speak slow when words come fast

to go deep when the water is shallow

to feel what is when seeing what isn’t

to seek what isn’t when there is so much that is

to be free when everything is sold

to be found when lost

to find words where there aren’t any

fighting hard to hold on

if i stop breathing, maybe i’ll hear the hum of bees visiting the apple blossoms across the street while i stand in my kitchen.  the air is motionless.  a welcome heaviness envelopes me.  light floods my being and lifts me, but i fight hard to hold on to the heavy feeling.

there’s been a lot of movement, a current pulling us down a river with twists and bends we couldn’t foresee. it’s time to crawl ashore and sit. in stillness.  where a fresh breath of beginning is infused with the musty odor of memory.

that’s where i’ll be dwelling in my soul.  i’ll be happy here alone.  maybe someone will pull up a chair and join me on my porch in that quiet.  or maybe i’ll just sit with the birds and the bees for a spell.

i am happy.