And then winter came

And God did so heap upon his Gifts unto Adam
and Adam did become so burdened with Abundance,
he sought shade from the light
and did sink his teeth into nothing, of his own creation,
and loved himself as creator, like God,
and staked out a portion of Eden, calling himself exile,
and only gave unto himself of his own hand,
and wove a second skin to cover up, with shame,
that his first was a gift,
and when he thought of creator,
he confused himself with God,
and how did God love his own creation,
calling it good.


Those times, down in the mouth,
 moping around,
the sun,
 unabashed magnificence,
 bouquet spread over
and, but how,
 with all my shambles,
it shines on

In Between

Despite the horror
— sequestered within —
I feel the sun
 beneath dead skin;
I see light
 beyond scaled lids;
and press and press,
 with primordial wings,
to lose this exoskeleton.

There is nothing to fear but

God, you were the one to fear —
 the one cause worth sacrificing for.

What do you mean?
 “It’s all in your hands.”

What are you saying?
 “You wish for my fulfillment.”

For what use, my sacrifices?
 You don’t want me to sacrifice at all.

You’ve ruined all my plans.
 You’ve stollen my thunder.

Oh, and it is so embarrassing
 when you anoint my crown
 and stick the well-prepared
 fattened calf under my nose
 and lord it up with everyone.

You raining sunlight on the just
 and the unjust.

You don’t understand.
You are out of control.

Pax Regina

At wit’s end, wisdom was my only friend.
Difficult, heavy, I clung to it
as it pulled me through the water,
sea waves endlessly crashing into my face.
Now I pick up little pieces and
hide them under my pillow, undeposited.
I dream of the day
when I trade it all in for a ticket out of here —
out from under the city
into the sunlight,
walk into the country
to find the home I never knew:
wisdom light as a smile.

Independence Day

At the forest’s edge
 the sky is half stars,
 half a fête of fireflies.
I tread step-by-step into the darkness
 and there is silent celebration.
A glow streaks beside me
 as high in the branches pulse living lights.
At the darkest spot, I stop and gaze;
 the path opens to the sky;
 layers of trees quietly host spectacle.

Happy Hunting Grounds

I have not found peace,
 but I have glimpsed it
in the happy eye of a dog
 on a walk,
 panting in step with step
 after a mad scramble
 after a fleeting rabbit
      or chasing
       a squirrel up a tree
and at home darting beneath
 slumbering lids,
 chasing dreams.


It is cruel and embarrassing
 to have an asteroid strike my beauty;
my ecosystems are invaded and disrupted
 with the havoc and the gash.
When my volcanoes erupt,
 my people chastise my
  self-inflicted violence.
They narrow their eyes at my fickle nature;
 they question my bountifulness.
In fear, some look to the moon
 and the craters and despair,
  but I am earth;
   I am shrouded in miracle:
    patient, folding old skin within
     to be rekindled into new,
 canvasing barren landscapes with
  humble grass, and flowers, soon.

Real Estate

I fancy myself a fine craftsman
 with fortitude enough for a mansion,
someone who adorns, with gold filigree,
 the polished, stained pine
 and keeps each room
  appointed, waiting
  for the assessor’s gaze.
Had I known it was my home I was crafting,
 I would have squatted upon a pond and been
someone who has enough fire
 and just enough wood
  to live.